


The Sin Eater

by TheMothman



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Backstory, Complete, Imprisonment, M/M, Non-Consensual, Original Character(s), Quests
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-02-22 00:39:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 73,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13155480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMothman/pseuds/TheMothman
Summary: Taken prisoner after the battle for Altissa, Ignis becomes Ardyn's personal plaything. The discovery of a strange talent may prolong his life until rescue arrives, but it will also tax his sense of duty and test his loyalty to the king. As he and Ravus are drawn into a mystery from the past, Ignis is forced to confront the truth about the line of Lucius and the real power behind the throne.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this without intending to share it with anyone, but then it got long and I figured someone else would be interested. I'm not up on all the tie-in movies and side stories that flesh out the canon, so I'll probably go off script a bit. Rest assured, I've got everything just how I like it.

His cell beneath Zegnatus Keep was three paces by three paces, square. The walls were perfectly smooth, unblemished metal, and the solid metal door was fit so snugly into the frame that Ignis could scarcely find the gap with his fingers. There was a straw mattress on the floor, and an iron bucket in the corner that Ignis had not had the occasion to use, since he had not had so much as a cup of water since he had awakened here.

He'd had time enough, even without the use of his eyes, to learn every inch of the place thoroughly.

Ignis did not think his sight would return; certainly there was little chance of it coming back before whatever execution awaited him. Before he had lost consciousness, Niflheim soldiers had dragged him ungently before a harried and decidedly flesh-and-blood doctor, who had probed the burns around his eyes for a moment before pronouncing it too soon to tell the extent of the damage. Ignis knew better than to hope. That which the gods took they did not readily return.

His eyes no longer pained him. When Ignis touched his face, he could feel the scars carved into his skin, but they did not hurt at all. A part of him wished that they did, so that he might feel some evidence of what he had done in that mad, desperate moment of blasphemy. As if only pain might make real that ancient power that had, for an instant, become a part of him, and he a part of it, so that he felt himself anchored firmly in history, as real as the tales of great men of the past. No longer a ghost, content to wander without shape or form. 

For just a few seconds, it had really felt like that.

Ignis wondered if anyone had seen it, if perhaps Ravus had lived to tell the tale. That would be good, if he had. For Ignis knew what must await him, what must happen to him very soon now, and he wanted very badly for someone to remember him as he had been in that moment.

Ravus was as good as anyone for remembering, and he was better than most. Though he would probably not be pleased that someone like Ignis would impose his final moments upon him, he would still take the task seriously. Ravus was, after all, only an utter fool sometimes, under very specific circumstances.

Ignis had begun to think that he might be able to forgive him for everything he had done, when he realized that he already had. Any lingering resentment he might have felt towards the man had gone up in a tongue of spiritual fire, incinerated beyond even ash, beyond even memory.

It was better that way, Ignis thought, to face death free of animosity and anger. He had burned once already; he didn’t want to do it again.

Slowly, carefully, as if making a mandala of sand, he conjured up Ravus’ face in his mind. He wasn’t ready to think about Noctis quite yet, but Ravus was manageable.

Of course, in the case of someone he had known as briefly as Ravus, there was no way to be certain how much of what he remembered was real and how much was his imagination filling in the gaps. Ignis was very aware of the mind’s limitations in such matters. Still, he felt confident he had gotten it mostly right. He knew because the face he remembered was not particularly handsome, but it was striking, as was the shock of platinum hair, paler still than it had been when Ignis had last seen it some 10 years ago. As if Ravus had grown disproportionately old in the time, which, Ignis supposed, might not be far from the truth.

He remembered Ravus’ metal arm as well, the brand of his shame and failure, affixed like a scarlet letter. Ignis did not for a moment believe that, with all the technology at its disposal, Niflheim could not have manufactured a more convincing prosthetic, and so it must have been Ravus’ decision to mark himself with that thing: a demon’s claw, carved out of darkness. Ravus had, after all, drunk deep of the same well of hubris that Ignis had. They had both survived its poison waters; they had both been irreconcilably changed by them.

Now that he knew, Ignis was relieved by the thought that Ravus’ uncanny strength must have come from his brush, however ill-fated, with the divine. Though the gods had rejected him, they had left something of themselves behind in him. Better that than what Ignis had at first feared: that only consorting with darkness and devils could imbue a man with the strength he needed to endure the coming trials.

The sound of the close-fit cell door scraping its frame drew Ignis’ attention. He pushed to his feet, trying not to look like he was afraid, though in fact he was terrified. For all the long hours he had been awake, he had thought he wanted them to come, get it over with. Execute him and be done with the horrible waiting. Now, they were here, and he realized that he had overestimated his resolve once again.

He heard the clank and scrape of metal as Niflheim soldiers took up positions in the corridor. They made too much noise after so long spent in silence for Ignis to be able to get any idea of how many there were, but he knew at once that in their wake came something that moved making almost no noise at all. Something that he knew was there all the same by the wave of cold it drove before it, the way it smelled faintly, not unpleasantly, of some dark, rich soil that was found deep in the earth.

“Sincerest apologies for keeping you waiting,” Ardyn said. His voice was wet velvet, the purr of a satiate beast. “I would have come sooner, but I didn’t want to interrupt your beauty sleep.”

When he stepped forward into the cell, Ignis felt it, as surely as if Ardyn had laid a hand against his chest and pushed. Flashes of dark flame swam before his sightless eyes. Whether panicked signals sent by his brain, or something beyond sight imprinting itself upon his ruined optic nerve, Ignis could not say. Whatever the case, he knew when Ardyn reached out to touch him, and he flinched away before his fingers could come in contact with his face.

Ardyn paused, drew his hand back. The dark fools-fire faded from before Ignis’ eyes.

“You wound me,” Ardyn said. “After all I could have done to you, and yet I did not. Don’t think I wasn’t tempted to peel off every inch of that lovely skin while you were still alive. I stayed my hand, and yet you still pull away from me, afraid.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Ignis spat. His throat kept trying to close up, to clamp down on the words, but he forced them out. “I loathe you. You disgust me.”

“You know nothing of me,” Ardyn said sharply. “But I know everything about you, boy. Faithful lapdog of a spoiled, sham king. You lick his boots even as he laughs at you. Not even good enough to be his whore.”

Ignis had moved before he knew that he would. He knew right where Ardyn was – he could practically see his outline, carved out of flame in the darkness – and he lunged towards it. His hands came up in front of him, curved like claws. He went for Ardyn’s face, trying to catch him in the eye, but all at once Ardyn was not standing where he had been a moment ago. He stepped deftly to the side and brought his fist up, cuffing Ignis in the side of the head hard enough to knock him off his feet.

He stumbled a step, and felt the cold claws of the soldiers tighten around his arms, wrenching him around to face Ardyn once more, forcing him to bow. When he struggled, one of them kicked him so that his legs went out from under him. Ignis cried out once as his knees hit the ground, but then he bit his tongue and forced himself to quiet. He supposed he would scream enough in good time, but he wasn’t about to give Ardyn the satisfaction before then.

“You’re quite unreasonable,” Ardyn said. “I didn’t want to bring a guard if you can believe it, but I knew I’d have to endure a tantrum or two. I’m more than capable of handling you, my boy, but I’d rather let them do it. Sometimes, I just don’t know my own strength. And you, you bruise so very easily.”

Ardyn reached for him again; this time, Ignis did not try to pull away. Strong fingers tangled in his hair, tilting his face up, and then Ardyn pressed the ball of his thumb into the corner of Ignis’ mouth, collecting a bead of blood from his split lip. He brought it up to his own mouth, and licked it.

“Common,” he said. “Just as I suspected. You taste like the slaves you were born to, like the slave you were born to be. You belong down there, on your knees before the king. And yet, even a slave deserves a reward when he is well-behaved.”

Ardyn brought out a tin canteen filled with water, and he shook it so Ignis could hear the liquid slosh inside. “You want this, don’t you?”

Ignis swallowed hard, managing to work up a pittance of saliva. It had been hours since he’d had anything to drink, maybe days at this point. He had thought he’d hardened himself against the overpowering thirst, but at the promise of water he felt it all over again, clawing at his throat, demanding he give in, play along, at least for now.

“Yes, I want it,” he whispered.

“Ask, and you shall receive,” Ardyn said. He unscrewed the top of the canteen with a flourish and lifted it to Ignis’ lips, feeding him the water slowly. It was cool and fresh, as if it had just come from some unspoiled stream instead of this lifeless and inhospitable place.

While he drank, Ardyn went on, “I suppose you move me somehow, boy. That pitiful devotion to the young prince; that selfless love that he doesn’t even stoop to notice. A king ought to have a man like you around, if for no other reason than to remind himself of his position. I know you can’t be that man for me, but I do think we can pretend for a while. Perhaps you’ll come around to my point of view.”

When Ignis finished drinking, Ardyn tossed the bottle aside to one of the waiting guards. “You know what I’m going to do to you, don’t you?”

Ignis lowered his head. He had hoped the water might revive him somewhat so that he could at least continue to fight with some measure of dignity, but in fact it had done the opposite. He felt utterly drained. Sagging against the hold of his captors, he said softly, “I think so.”

“Good,” Ardyn purred. “Then there’s no need for you to get up. We’ll start by finding a use for that pretty mouth besides platitudes and pissing me off.”

His fingers were back in Ignis’ hair, forcing his head up. Though Ignis flinched at his touch, Ardyn didn’t hurt him. He was almost gentle, as long as Ignis went along with it.

Ardyn dragged him forward, stepping in to meet him, guiding his face to the front of his trousers. That familiar earthy smell floated up to him through the fabric. Ignis felt a dawning horror, and he tried to pull away, but Ardyn’s hand was already firmly around the back of his neck, holding him in place, so that in his struggles he only managed to nuzzle more deeply into the bend of Ardyn’s hip.

Though his trousers were of heavy brocade, they fit closely, and to Ignis’ disgust he realized he could feel everything: the firm swelling of Ardyn’s thigh beneath his cheek, and against his lips the sizable bulge of his cock. It was already beginning to harden, as if in anticipation of the violence to come, and it made a slowly stiffening ridge against Ignis’ lower lip.

“Open your mouth,” Ardyn said. “Work it through the fabric. We’ll see if you deserve skin.”

When Ignis was slow to comply, Ardyn stepped back, dragging him along. The soldiers who pinned his arms stayed rooted in place, so that Ignis’ shoulders were stretched at an unnatural angle. Still Ardyn pulled him, slowly, slowly, until his joints creaked in protest and Ignis’ lips parted in a moan.

It was enough, it seemed. The moment his mouth opened, he felt the bulge of Ardyn’s cock inside it, pushing past his teeth, over his tongue. The brocade fabric of his trousers quickly became damp with saliva, and Ignis gagged on it, feeling twin rivulets of liquid spilling out the corners of his mouth.

Though he tried to pull away, Ardyn held him fast, forcing him to move his head so that his abortive attempts to close his mouth, to pull away, only resulted in him bathing Ardyn’s still-sheathed cock from root to tip. It was hard now, straining against the fabric of his trousers. Slowly, Ardyn eased him back, though not far. Ignis could hear the soft clink of hardware as Ardyn undid his belt, then unfastened the clasps in the front of his trousers.

When he eased his cock out, it pressed up against Ignis’ cheek and he could feel its impressive length, the solid thickness around the middle. It felt as hard as granite, but covered in a silky glove. A bead of liquid had gathered on the tip, and where it touched Ignis’ skin it burned cold, like frost.

Ignis felt a growing dread. He had known all along that Ardyn was wrong somehow, inhuman; whatever blood flowed in his veins and come pulsed in his cock wasn’t normal either.

“Take it,” Ardyn said, his voice pitched low as he guided the head to press against Ignis’ lips.

“No,” Ignis managed to respond, keeping his teeth clenched. He had hoped to sound brave, defiant. In fact he only sounded horrified.

“Be reasonable,” Ardyn said. “I’m giving you the illusion of free will. Open your mouth and take it of your own accord. If you don’t, I’ll have one of my men break your jaw and hold it open while I fuck your blood-filled throat.”

Ignis knew that he wasn’t bluffing, that he would be more than willing to do just as he had said. That, perhaps most terrifying of all, either option would have been equally entertaining to him.

He sucked in a deep breath and slowly parted his lips. The head of Ardyn’s cock pressed eagerly between them, past his teeth, forcing his tongue down and out of the way. Ardyn jerked him forward so that it went in deep, hitting the back of his throat, and then pressing further still. It seemed impossibly large and thick inside him, with a steady, throbbing pulse that pounded like a jackhammer in his skull. Ardyn pushed in all the way to root, so that Ignis’ senses were overwhelmed by an earthy smell. He exhaled hard through his nose to expel it, but when he tried to breathe in again, he couldn’t. Ignis did struggle then, in earnest, but Ardyn’s grip on him was unfailing. He held him in place while he fucked his mouth in short, quick strokes, forcing himself deep into his throat with each one.

Ignis felt a scream bubbling up inside him, but it only vibrated mutely against Ardyn’s cock. Ardyn let out a little murmur of surprise at that, and Ignis was only just aware enough to feel a wave of shame wash over him.

He had pleased him, somehow.

His body was starved for air. Ignis felt himself beginning to swoon. In a last ditch effort to expel the invader, the muscles in his throat clamped down on Ardyn’s cock, spasming around it. It was at that moment, that he came.

A torrent of icy cold miasma filled Ignis’ mouth. It smelled like a root cellar, tasted like something dug out of the raw earth. He didn’t even try to spit it out; he let it run down his throat, leaving a freezing trail all the way to his insides.

“Splendid,” he heard Ardyn say, though only faintly over the rush of blood in his head. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, boy?”

He let go of Ignis’ hair, allowing him to fall forward. The guards had slacked their grip on him considerably, and he slid out of their hold to slump to the floor. He turned over on his side, pulling his knees in so that he was tucked around the icy black knot settling into his stomach.

“Make sure he’s fed and watered,” he heard Ardyn say as he lost consciousness. “I forbid you to let him die.”


	2. Chapter 2

Ignis had been six years old when Livia Faustina - the woman who had once told him to call her mother - had bundled him into a car taking passengers to the capital and taking him forever out of his father’s reach. 

He’d not seen either of them again, though he had heard, years later, that Livia Faustina had died of some lingering complaint of the lungs. A sickness that should have passed, but that, by some unfortunate chance, did not.

Of his father, Solus Ignis, there had been no news forthcoming, and Ignis had not made further inquiries.

He had vague memories of his familial estate. It was a sprawling property, falling into rapid decripitude. The fields around it had all long since been sold off to property speculators from Insomnia. They lay fallow; ever since the borders had been opened following the war with the Empire, it had become significantly cheaper to import grain from abroad. 

The large villa that dominated the estate remained mostly intact, though it was but a ruin of its former splendor. At some point before Ignis had been born, Solus and Diana Justina, his first wife, had sold off much of the furniture and tapestries. Whole wings of the villa had been closed after that, and by the time Diana Justina was gone and Solus married for the second time, the entire family, as well as two aging servants, were cramped into the rooms surrounding the central courtyard, where they could look in every day at the villa’s overgrown and decaying heart, infested with an increasing number of vermin.

Ignis was an only child. Diana Justina had been dead for years, and he did not remember her. By the time he was old enough to ask questions, there had not been so much as a picture for him to look at; all the remnants of Diana Justina had long since been swept out the door by his father’s creditors

It had been an infection that took her, that was the story they always told him. Uncommon in this day and age for a healthy young woman to die in childbirth, but not unheard of out in the provinces. And besides, they said, often accompanying it with a smile and a pat on the head, she had died doing her duty, producing a son.

Livia Faustina had been a rather quick acquisition on his father’s part. Diana Justina had not even been in her tomb six months when Solus had already scouted, courted, and secured a new bride.

She was a rather nervous and sickly girl, the youngest daughter and the last to be married before her father could liquidate his property and try his luck amongst the rest of the old aristocracy who had long since moved to Galdin Quay. Still, she was of noble blood, and brought with her a name that had been good not all that long ago, and so Solus took her without hesitation.

Ignis remembered overhearing some of the women saying that she was too young, that it was too soon. Diana’s ghost would still be about, and she would not let a girl like that rest easy in her husband’s bed, playing mother to her son. Livia Faustina had been young, yes, and Solus already almost 50 when they were married. Uncommon in this day and age, but not unheard of. Especially not out in the provinces, where the old ways still prevailed.

Young or not, Livia Faustina had been the first to notice when Ignis began to speak at a year old, when he started, haltingly, to read just before his third birthday. She begged and borrowed what texts she could, and she forced him to sit with them for hours. Her demeanor was often harried and distant, her grip on his wrist sometimes hard enough to bruise, but he did not doubt that he owed her a debt.

By the time Ignis had left home, the letter clutched in his hand had been written in his own flowing, careful script. His father had dictated the words, but since his own fingers had long ago begun to tremble when wrapped around anything that wasn’t a wineglass or whiskey bottle, the actual writing had fallen to Ignis.

_Beloved and Noble King of the Realm,_

_We the House Scientia commend this young man to the keeping of the royal court. His maternal grandfather served your predecessor well and faithfully, and we trust this scion of his line will do the same. His father shall hold in trust any stipend you see fit to give him for his service until such time as he comes of age._

_Yours Faithfully,  
Solus Ignis Scientia_

Much later, Ignis would grow to wonder what his father had really hoped to accomplish by sending him to the capital. He had not, while still in the provinces, attracted much attention for his intellect. It was known that he was uncommonly bright, but it was treated as a mere curiosity. No one seemed to know what to do with it.

No, it was not his ability to name all the High Kings, or to recite excerpts from Old Dynasty poetry that had caused his father’s companions to begin to take notice of him. It was not because of his fine mind that they suddenly took to calling him in when they gathered in the ruined courtyard to drink, that they made him serve as their cupbearer, which Ignis did dutifully and silently, shivering the entire time beneath gazes he did not understand.

On the morning after one such night, he heard Solus and Livia Faustina arguing in hushed tones.

“Let him go to the capital,” his father had said. “Pretty, useless baubles fetch a higher price there.”

That had been followed by the sound of breaking glass, as Livia Faustina dashed the cup out of his hand so that it shattered on the stones. Sobbing, she fled the room.

And so it had come to pass that Ignis found himself let out at the steps of the palace just as the sun was going down. He remembered climbing them, only to find that the huge gate at the top was already shut for the day. A smaller side door had been left open to let a few late-leaving workers out for the night, and Ignis slipped inside through it.

He passed into a massive reception hall that towered above and around him like a villa made for giants. The receptionist was just packing her desk up for the evening, but when she saw Ignis there she paused. She took his letter, read it, then looked Ignis over with strange eyes.

He had not known then that she pitied him; he would not come to recognize pity until much later, when he had been exposed to more of it.

“Come, my lord” she said, rising from her desk. She was a tall woman, and she moved with brisk efficiency, such that Ignis shrunk away from her when she came out from behind the desk and started, with long, swift strides, towards the elevator. He had to run to keep up with her. 

She did not speak to him during the long ascent, but he had the feeling that she kept glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. He did his best not to, out of a sense of propriety, but Ignis found himself stealing looks at her, too. 

He remembered how smart he had felt that morning, leaving home for the first time in a new linen shirt, his black trousers freshly washed and mended by Livia Faustina’s careful hand. Now he could see, in every line and sharp crease of this woman’s jet black suit, how insufficient he really was.

The elevator let them out at the top floor, and the woman led them down a hallway, past the great vaulted doors that opened on the king’s throne room. She did not go in there, but instead turned into a small office adjacent to it. Before Ignis could even realize that he was now in the presence of the king, the woman had bowed smartly and said, “Your Majesty, I present Lord Scientia the Younger. He has freshly arrived from the provinces.”

The older man sitting behind the desk did not rise, but scrutinized Ignis closely from where he sat. His face did not register pity, though perhaps only because it did not register much of anything at all.

“The scribe has left for the day, Aeolea. Read his letter to me.”

The woman took up a position next to the king’s desk, and read the letter in a loud, clear voice. After she had finished, the king raised a gloved hand and beckoned to a man on one of the divans pushed along the sides of the room.

He was young, Ignis noticed, around Livia Faustina’s age, and he wore the black fatigues and tall Hessian boots of the Crownsguard. Though he had not yet shed the last of his adolescent awkwardness, when he moved it was with swift assurance, and a near-silent tread. He set one hand on the hilt of his katana as he stepped to the king’s side.

The king spoke to him in the language of the court that only the nobles were taught.

“Quid enim scimus de patre suo?”

“Ebrius est,” Cor said. “Nemo est consecutio.”

“Neque enim ego curram quoniam caritas ex nobilitate filii simulatque furcae?”

“Non enim habemus mentio Scientia servientes in foribus regis. Mittam domum?”

“Aelius,” Ignis said quietly.

The king and the knight both looked at him, startled. “Speak up, boy.”

“My mother’s father was called Aelius. Hadrian Dominitanius. He fought and died in a sea battle for Altissa. Serving the king, nobly.”

The king exchanged a glance with Cor, who, rather than being embarrassed at having been caught out, was smiling now.

“Find a room for him,” the king said. “And get him a hot meal. In the morning, we will see what this provincial young man can do for my errant son.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to fans of the 700 year old dildo. You know who you are.

Ignis awoke with a screaming pain in his back. His arms were bound above his head, steel cables cutting to his wrists. His ankles were locked in shackles affixed to the floor, pulling his legs apart so that his feet were outside the width of his shoulders. It was an awkward stance, but it still allowed him to get his feet under him. Once he had straightened up, taking some of the pressure off his arms, the pain subsided.

He could breathe again, without the weight of his own body crushing the air out of his lungs. He sucked in a deep gulp of air, and his throat throbbed in protest. It felt bruised, horribly so, by the violence Ardyn had done to it. There was still a foul taste in his mouth and a knot of ice in his stomach. He thought of Ardyn’s true face, the one that betrayed the awful darkness within him, and he was terrified by the thought that some of that had now been transferred to him. For if Ardyn’s veins bled black, and black seeped from his eyes like tears, surely the loathsome seed he spilled was contaminated as well.

Ignis felt suddenly, violently ill. He leaned over, straining against his bonds, and retched. A thin trickle of something come up and he spat it out, but the chill inside him remained, clinging to his ribs.

He hung there a moment, his hands curled around the cable that bound them to keep the worst of the strain off his throbbing shoulders. By the smell in the air, he knew that he was no longer in that subterranean cell; that, at least, he could be grateful for. If Ardyn had left him there, so close to the place he had been defiled, having to inhale that awful stench with each breath, then he really wouldn’t have been able to bear it.

Soon, he knew, Ardyn would kill him. At the moment, he was as a cat batting at its prey, playing with it before delivering the final blow. When he looked at it like that – reasonably, logically – Ignis knew that he could endure any further humiliation that Ardyn might have planned for him. It would all be over in good time, and Noctis would never have to know about what had happened here. He would remember Ignis as he had been in the moments before he was taken, infused with divine power, a holy paladin riding forth in his king’s name, and of the rest he would remain blissfully ignorant.

From behind him, he heard the sound of a door unlatching. Ignis straightened up and forced his expression into what he hoped was a semblance of impassive stoicism. He had not realized until this moment how exposed his position left him, with his legs spread wide and his breast bared. He felt open, vulnerable, completely exposed beneath Ardyn’s eyes.

“You’re awake,” Ardyn purred. “I came as soon as I heard.”

He took a step forward and set a hand on the small of Ignis’ back. Ignis tensed up, trying to pull away.

“Shh,” Ardyn crooned, dragging his fingers up Ignis’ spine. “There’s no need for that. We’re friends here, aren’t we?”

Ignis felt his skin tingling beneath Ardyn’s touch. His back arching further, further, until he was no longer trying to escape him but was instead pushing back, trembling, into him.

“Kill me!” The words were out before he knew he would say them. Once they were, he felt his throat tightening, as if he had swallowed a small, smooth stone. He struggled to get the rest out ahead of an impending storm of tears. “Kill me and be done with it. Nothing will change. Noctis is still coming for you. He is the true king, and you… you…”

“Quiet, I said.” Ardyn’s mouth was against the side of his face, exhaling a cloud of something cold and dark that clung and condensed on Ignis’ skin. “Before you say something that you regret.”

All at once, his voice dried up. Ignis tried to continue speaking, but he could only move his lips mutely, making soft, choked noises deep in his throat.

“That’s better,” Ardyn went on. His hand had made one slow circuit up and then back down Ignis’ spine, coming to rest once more on his hip. He brought the other hand to join it, spanning them around the narrowest part of Ignis’ waist, so thin that his fingers almost touched. “You’re so much more handsome when you’re not talking.”

Ignis felt the rasp of stubble against his exposed neck as Ardyn dragged his lips up the column of his throat, scraping it with his teeth. He had never been touched like this before. Though Ignis tried to twist away, his skin where they had come into contact felt raw, white-hot. Blood rushed to his groin, and he felt the first stirrings of arousal coil in his stomach like treacherous serpents.

Mortified, he went still and rigid in Ardyn’s hold.

“What is it now?” Ardyn said. His mouth was still pressed against Ignis’ ear, his tongue slowly exploring its contours. When he paused to speak, his breath cooled on the damp flesh. “Did I find something you like? I knew that I would. There’s a darkness in you too, my boy. I felt it calling to me the moment I laid eyes on you. Whatever I put inside you, that’s just helping along what’s already there.”

His hands flexed around Ignis’ waist, and one slipped down, following the groove between his hips to cup around his crotch. Ignis felt his cock twitch as Ardyn worked it through his trousers, testing its heft.

“Don’t…” Ignis rasped. “Please, don’t.”

It was as much as he could manage. His voice broke on the last word, and when he opened his mouth next it was to emit a choked sob. He could feel tears on his cheeks, burning his ruined eyes.

“That’s all right,” Ardyn said. Without breaking contact with his body he circled around to Ignis’ front, touched his face, as if intrigued by his tears. “Cry all you like. When I was down there, in that forgotten and forsaken place, I cried myself dry. But it was only then, when I was all empty of grief and fear, that there was room for something else to come in and make a home.”

Ignis swallowed hard, choking back his tears. For indeed he took what Ardyn had said very seriously, and, from what he had seen of the man, did not think that he was speaking metaphorically or melodramatically in the slightest.

“Oh? Have you rallied yourself?” Ardyn stroked his cheek, brushing away the last of the moisture. “Good, I’m glad. It ruins the lines of your face.”

He stroked the ball of his thumb along Ignis’ lower lip, up the smooth contour of his cheek to where it belled out at the bone. His hand disappeared for a moment, and when it returned it was to place the blade of a dagger against Ignis’ throat.

“In my day,” Ardyn continued to speak, blithely drawing the point of the blade along Ignis’ jaw without breaking the skin, “when a man got hold of a pretty, unbearded boy he might be tempted to geld him to ensure he stayed that way. I don’t suppose they do that anymore, do they?”

“You’re a monster,” Ignis whispered.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Ardyn said. “I suppose you all consider yourselves too damn civilized now.”

Ardyn’s free hand busied itself undoing the buttons on the front of Ignis’ shirt. “I should have had them undress you before they wrapped you up me. It is a nice uniform. Though I suppose you won’t be needing it anymore.”

He spread the shirt open over Ignis’ chest, and then slipped the dagger under the fabric, pulling it back so it cut through one of the sleeves. When Ignis felt his shirt slip off his shoulders, leaving him naked from the waist up, helpless tears came again to his eyes.

“There, there,” Ardyn said absently, wadding the ruined shirt into a ball and tossing it into the corner. “It will all be over soon.”

He knelt at Ignis’ feet, and unbuckled his belt one-handed. He began to cut through the legs of his trousers. Ignis tried to draw his legs together, but the shackles around his ankles held him fast, laid open before Ardyn’s eyes. In an instant, Ignis was stripped of his uniform, naked except for a pair of black underwear.

Tossing the trousers aside, Ardyn straightened up again. Though he couldn’t see him, Ignis could feel his gaze moving over him, taking in every inch of uncovered skin, missing nothing. Ardyn’s hand came to rest on his midsection, the tips of his fingers just dipping below the waistband of his underwear.

“Tell me, boy,” he said abruptly. “Are you a virgin?”

Ignis turned his face away, ashamed.

“Perhaps I’ll be more gentle if you are,” Ardyn said. He slipped his hand fully into Ignis’ underwear. His fingers were rough with callouses, almost punishing against Ignis’ sensitive flesh.

A wordless murmur of protest slipped from Ignis’ lips as Ardyn stroked his cock. “Tell me,” Ardyn coaxed. “Tell me everything.”

This time, his voice was pitched low, strange. It seemed to pluck a chord in Ignis’ chest and set him vibrating from the inside out. He felt it in the pit of his stomach, where a knot of darkness had coalesced. He felt the truth torn out of him by some terrible force he could neither deny nor disobey.

“Yes,” Ignis whispered, without having intended to speak. Worse even than the confession, he felt his face flushing with shame.

“My word, you do like to do things the hard way,” Ardyn said. “Never mind, we have time. No one will ever come for you here, after all. Now, let’s work on ridding you of that most unfortunate condition.”

Ignis gasped when Ardyn withdrew his hand from within his clothes. He returned it a moment later, this time with the blade, which he used to slice through the final layer of fabric. Though he was loathe to admit it, Ignis could tell by the way that his cock shifted as it was freed that he was stiff and erect.

Ardyn noticed too, and his rough hand closed once more around the shaft, stroking it mercilessly. “I barely even touched you. Yet here you are, practically hard already. I thought you were a fighter. No, I’ll have you begging for it in no time.”

His free hand went around the back of Ignis’ neck, holding him still. His grip was implacable, firm, denying the possibility of struggle before Ignis could even think to do so. He tilted his face back obediently, and Ardyn descended on him for a kiss. His tongue pushed past Ignis’ pliant lips, exploring his mouth. It was a horror beyond horrors: this monster, this nightmare creature, kissing him not as a conqueror or a brute, but with tenderness, as a lover might.

It seemed to go on forever. He was caught between Ardyn’s rough and unforgiving hand on his cock and his gentle and coaxing lips on his. Between the two extremes, Ardyn had pressed their bodies together, and Ignis could feel the biting irritation of leather and brocade clothing against his naked flesh.

Heat pooled in the pit of his stomach; his cock felt alive, tingling, as if charged with electricity. If he just let Ardyn finish him, he thought, half delirious with bewildered shame. If he just let go, then it would all be over…

All at once, Ardyn pulled his hand away. For a moment, before he could realize what had happened, Ignis’ hips strained after it and he moaned against Ardyn’s mouth. It was a cry of disappointment; they had both heard it, and they both knew it for what it was.

“Really now,” Ardyn said. “You can’t expect me to do all the work, can you?”

He withdrew for a moment, and Ignis sagged wearily against his bonds. He willed his cock to soften again, but it was slow to forget the feel of Ardyn’s skillful hands. The burn of his callused fingers remained like a brand.

When Ardyn returned, he set one palm against the small of Ignis’ back and then trailed it down, following the cleft of his buttocks. One finger pushed inside, finding the tight ring of muscle there and teasing it. Slick with oil, it slid easily inside.

Ignis cried out, and his body tensed up, clamping down on the invading digit.

“Shh,” Ardyn purred, stroking Ignis’ hair with his free hand, like he might pet the mane of a skittish horse. “It’s just one little finger. There’s going to be much bigger before I’m done with you. You’d better relax, or you might get hurt.”

Ignis whimpered as he added a second finger, working them slowly in and out. “Please, no. Kill me instead. Just don’t do this.”

“And here I thought we were having fun.” On the next stroke, Ardyn drove his fingers in hard, so that Ignis cried out. “Who did you think you were saving yourself for? Prince Noctis? You know, boy, I’m getting a little tired of hearing you pule and whine about him. If he wanted you, he would have taken you long ago. Your pathetic little crush was never subtle.”

With that, Ardyn pulled his fingers out. Ignis was left feeling stretched and exposed in their absence. His legs threatened to buckle, but Ardyn caught him by the hips and kept him up. “He never wanted you. But I do.”

Ardyn unbuckled his belt, freeing his cock. When he pressed it up against him, Ignis shuddered. It seemed impossibly huge and blunt against his tiny opening.

“You can’t,” Ignis gasped, panic fluttering in his chest. “It’s too big. You can’t…”

But then, Ardyn did.

The first thrust buried his cock halfway to the hilt, which was more than enough to make Ignis scream. He struggled against his bonds, twisting his wrists mindlessly, which only seemed to make the cables around them pull tighter.

Ardyn was pressed up against him, half-bent over him. His breath was hot on Ignis’ ear. “That is a tight fit. I’ll have to loosen you up if you’re going to be any use to me.”

He thrust in again, wrenching another cry from Ignis’ burning throat. His narrow hips and slight frame felt as if they were being torn apart, like Ardyn’s cock was pushing right through him, cracking bone and displacing organs.

For the first few strokes, it was all Ignis could do not to scream, but in time the worst of the agony faded. Ardyn kept a firm hold on his hips, angling his body so that his cock slid in with less resistance. He seemed determined that Ignis not shut down entirely from the pain; no, Ardyn wanted him fully here for all of this.

On the next thrust, Ardyn shifted his stance slightly, and the head of his cock found a tight knot of pleasure inside of Ignis’ body. It sent a shock through him, and his flagging erection sprang suddenly back to attention.

“Oh?” Ardyn murmured. “What’s this?”

His hand closed again around Ignis’ cock, stroking it in time with each punishing thrust. “Are you going to come, boy? On your very first time with a man inside you? There’s a little whore hiding underneath that straight-laced exterior.”

Ignis said nothing; he just focused on drawing each breath, holding it, letting it out. He might have denied everything Ardyn said, spat the words back in his face, screamed and howled in defiance until the very end.

But there would have been little point in that.

All it had taken was a single kiss, a few caresses, and his body had betrayed him, unmanned him. Ignis had always known he wasn’t strong, but he had always thought he at least had the resolve to weather any indignity that might fall upon him. Now, he knew how delusional he had been.

Noctis had seen this weakness in him all along; he must have. Ignis did not doubt that the prince cared for him, for Ignis was useful to him. But wasn’t he useful like this, as well?

Ardyn gasped sharply as he came. A flood of cold liquid filled Ignis’ insides; he gagged as he felt it clinging to him. His cock was painfully rigid, and Ignis moved a little, sliding it against Ardyn’s slack hand, trying to finish himself off. He was disgusted with himself, but also beyond disgust, beyond shame. Only the dull ache in the pit of his stomach was urgent and real to him now, and he knew how to soothe it.

Except that Ardyn didn’t allow it. He took his hand away, and then he straightened up, pulling his softening member out. Ignis felt a trickle of liquid roll down the inside of his thigh, too warm to be Ardyn’s loathsome seed. It could only have been blood.

“It seems you didn’t enjoy that as much as you could have,” Ardyn said as he did up his trousers. “Though you were close, I think. I’d consider finishing you off, if you ask me nicely.”

Ignis sagged against his bonds. Without Ardyn’s hands on him, he was able to rally one last defence, the only one he could think of. “When Noctis comes--”

“You’re beginning to sound like a broken record, boy,” Ardyn said with an edge to his voice. “I’m getting just a little sick and tired of hearing about Prince Noctis.”

All at once, his demeanor softened, and he reached out to stroke Ignis’ cheek. It was a light touch, but there was violence in it, barely held in check, like a silk glove that concealed razor sharp talons.

“I do like the look of you like this, though. I must admit, I like it very much. Perhaps there’s a way we can preserve it for posterity.”

He was gone then, and Ignis heard him some paces away, rummaging through items on a shelf or in a cabinet.

“Please,” Ignis said. “No more. I can’t take it. You’ve gotten what you wanted, and I know you’ll come to take it again. I can’t stop you. But until then, just leave me in peace.”

“Hush,” Ardyn soothed as he returned. “I have some things to make you feel better.”

He reached down and ran the backs of his fingers along the underside of Ignis’ cock. It was still painfully hard, and when Ardyn touched it Ignis caught his breath in a shuddering gasp.

When he reached the head, Ardyn slipped a cold metal ring over it. Slowly, while Ignis panted for breath through clenched teeth, he slid it all the way down to the base, where it tightened by use of some hidden mechanism.

“That should keep you hard for a while,” Ardyn said. “I wouldn’t want you to forget about me while I’m away. And I wouldn’t want you to forget your first time, either. I don’t suppose you know what this is, do you?”

He pressed the object he had in his hand against Ignis’ cheek, letting him feel it in the absence of being able to see. It was a cylinder, made of some smooth stone - volcanic perhaps - and tapered at one end. Ignis gasped when he realized that he recognized the shape, and he felt blood rush to his cheeks.

“I had heard you were a clever boy. I wonder if you know anything about the harvest ritual they practiced in the Old Dynasty. I suppose you wouldn’t, really. These were mystery rites, after all. Largely left out of the official record. Regardless, I suppose I can let slip a thing or two after 700 years.”

As he spoke, Ignis found himself listening closely, fascinated in spite of himself.

“The priests of the Oracle would choose seven young maids and seven young men as tribute. All were untouched, unblemished, quite the sight when you got them together. On the eve of the rites, they would ply them with poppy and drink until they were quite pliant, then they would lead them one by one to the altar. You didn’t have to bind them, or force them; they were quite willing to go along with it. Even when those lecherous old men stripped them of their clothes, and held them down, and slid one of these ingenious little artifacts inside them.”

Ardyn paused. “No, I suppose there was a little squirming from time to time at that last part. Regardless, the priests of the Oracle went to work with mouths and hands, driving those little fresh-faced virgins into a frenzy. And then, right at the moment of their greatest pleasure, down came the Oracle’s knife, right into their tender little breasts.”

Ardyn tapped the spot over Ignis’ heart, and Ignis shivered. “It’s horrible.”

“It’s ancient history,” Ardyn said. “Just like this little piece of hardware. I decided to keep it, for the dear memories it held. It’s all in the past now. So much is in the past.”

He lowered the stone phallus, slipping the narrow edge into Ignis’ body. It was not so big around as Ardyn’s cock had been, but the stone was hard and unyielding. Ardyn pushed it in until it stayed, held in place by the tight ring of muscle at Ignis’ entrance.

“Soon, boy, you will be past, too,” Ardyn whispered. Then he turned and was gone, with the scrape of a latch turning in a lock.

Left alone once more in his personal darkness, Ignis lowered his head and began to weep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick look back to when Ardyn was king. I'm going somewhere with this.

That night, they drank to the health of the prince regent. He had been victorious in battle, the holy hand of the gods themselves, bringing to heel the marauding barbarian tribes of the south, the bandits at their border who threatened their security and the inexorable march of progress across the land.

And so they celebrated in his name, all those palace courtier and diplomats who had never seen blood in such quantities as he had. Who had never ridden forth at the head of a cavalry formation, under a hail of arrows so thick that it turned the sky black. Such men had no scars, save for the imagined lash of the whip on their backs. Prince Ardyn took solace in the fact that his scars, though very real, were all on the front, for he had never run from a battle, never turned away from death.

They were shameless when they toasted his victory, but the prince still raised his glass each time. Raised it, and then passed it immediately to his poison taster before it so much as touched his lips. 

Rigorous in strategy, clear-headed in battle, but never so careful as he was in his own home, surrounded by his kinsmen. That was a lesson Ardyn had learned from his father, who had died shitting and puking blood, the victim of a very small, very deadly flower in the bottom of his morning cup of coffee.

The sun was rising by the time the banquet broke up. Most of the guests had fallen asleep on their couches, or else retired to one of the adjacent rooms with an ambitious young page or a willing flute girl.

Ardyn was exhausted by the time it was over, and he felt slick with some invisible filth, as if he had just marched through a swamp by moonlight. When he stood up, his head swam. He’d drunk too much, again, and, like the previous dozen times, he swore it would be his last. He hated feeling inefficient: his sharp mind blunted, his sword hand clumsy and distant.

One of the pages rose to assist him; Ardyn shook him off. He could certainly still walk on his own, though it did seem further than it had at the beginning of the evening, and the hall that led to his private rooms was darker and colder with the torches extinguished the first blue light of dawn creeping over the portico.

He fumbled for a moment with the key corded around his waist. The prince always locked his rooms when he was away. He always barred the windows and kept the curtains drawn. Duscaian snipers could shoot an arrow through a man’s heart from 100 yards away. He knew it to be true; he had seen it before.

The key caught in the latch and the door swung open, spilling the prince inside so that he stumbled a few steps. With a knot in his stomach, an ocean of sand in his head, and a steady hand in spite of it all, he turned and did up the locks again.

Fumbling at his collar, Ardyn tore the pin out of his cloak and let the heavy train fall to the floor behind him. The precious stones and gold ornaments affixed to the fabric clattered as they struck the marble floor. For as heavy as the damned thing was, they might as well expect him to walk around balancing half the treasury on his shoulders.

In the bed chamber, he raked back the covers and crawled under them fully dressed. It was just as his head hit the pillow that the shape beside him stirred.

“I fell asleep waiting for you. I’m sorry.”

Ardyn closed his eyes. “It doesn’t matter now. Go back to sleep. I don’t require you tonight.”

“No, I’m awake. I’ll attend to you.” 

The young man sat up, brushing his hair back from his brow. Ardyn’s eyes were open now, in spite of what he might have liked, and he watched him reach over gracefully to light the lamp next to the bed.

He was called Valia. No family name, no country. At least none that he had ever volunteered or that Ardyn had ever bothered to ask. He needed no past, for he was here now and it seemed to suit the both of them. 

Only a boy when he was captured in a raid of one of the rebel oases in the desert, he’d been taken as plunder. Stripped and chained and thrown in among the rest of the spoils, of which the warchief had first pick.

Ardyn had been nineteen and already a veteran of many battles. He had less use for a pitiful captive than he had for a good steel sword or a war horse seventeen hands high. Yet the good sword had long since bent on the breastplate of the Gralian champion, and the war horse had long since been cut from beneath him on the Plains of Daphne. Only the boy remained.

The lamp now lit, its glow fell over Valia’s face. His green eyes were still puffy with sleep, light hair tousled and unruly; he features - at once soft and chiseled - had lost little of their grave thoughtfulness. Indeed they generally retained it, even in sleep.

“You smell like wine, my lord,” he said. “Actually, you smell more like the feet that crush the grapes to make the wine.”

“Oh, leave me to sleep.” Ardyn turned over on his side, facing away. He knew that what he had wanted to appear a regal display of kingly disdain came off more like a tantrum born out of pique.

“I’ll do no such thing,” Valia said, as if offended by the suggestion. The sheets rustled as he slipped out from under them, hurriedly pulling a light robe on to his tall, thin frame. “And neither will you. You’ll drink some water, and then you’ll dress for bed. Only then, if I am satisfied, will I leave you to sleep, my lord.”

Ardyn lay very still, feeling for all the world like a sullen child, as he listened to Valia move briskly about the bedchamber. It seemed absurd that he, who had trampled hundreds beneath his boots, might ever want or need this boy of no consequence feather-clucking about him like a nursemaid. And yet, without ever having made a sign or spoken a word, they both knew better than that.

Valia returned with a cup of water, which Ardyn sat up to drink. He drained it dutifully, and then let Valia refill it for him.

“My poor little Ifrit,” the boy said with a faint smile. “Was it really so dreadful tonight? A banquet in your honor, it must have offended your delicate sensibilities so.”

“It was damned dull,” Ardyn spat. “Pointless. Just more talk, from men who only know how to talk endlessly. They don’t know what it is to taste blood; only words and more words. Those just taste like ashes to me.”

“They know you’re a great man,” Valia said. When Ardyn was slow to drink the rest of the water, Valia took the cup gently from him and lifted it to his lips, feeding it to him in sips. “Even though they cannot truly understand greatness. And so they seek to put you in a context that they know, adorn you with symbols that they have seen before. You must be patient with them.”

“Must I?”

“Yes,” Valia said, setting the now-empty cup aside. “You must be ever so patient, and gracious, and benevolent. For your people love you well, even if they don’t demonstrate it precisely as you might like.”

Ardyn let his head fall back against the pillow. He was aware that he was pouting, even if he was powerless to stop it. “And you? Do you love me, even if I am impatient, and ungracious, and lacking in benevolence?”

“I love you the most,” Valia replied. “More than my life. Now, what have you done with your cloak? You looked so handsome in it earlier.”

“I left it in the hall. It must have two talents of gold on it.”

“Three talents,” Valia said. “And you’ve left it lying about like your muddy galoshes. I’ll go get it.” 

He started to rise, but Ardyn caught him around the waist and dragged him once more onto the bed, pushing him onto his back and then turning over on top of him. Valia shifted to accommodate the change, his thighs parting so Ardyn could settle his hips between them.

“Have your spirits revived, my lord?”

Ardyn kissed him hard, and he felt Valia’s teeth cutting into his lips, giving him pain in exchange for pleasure, just how he liked it. “I’m getting there,” he said.

“That cheers me to hear,” Valia said. His pale eyes narrowed, steely and battle ready. Already his hands were at work between their bodies, loosening the ties and clasps on Ardyn’s court robes, uncovering his skin slowly and caressing that which he exposed with his mouth. His lips found a tight nipple, sucking for a moment before closing his teeth around it. He bit down hard enough to send a shock of pain through Ardyn’s body, and to cause a knot of arousal to gather in the pit of his stomach.

Ardyn tossed off his robe, and Valia’s hands went to his shoulders, tracing the hard cords in his upper arms, his sculpted collarbones, his firm chest. Lean, hard-won muscle, all of it.

“Is this what you were waiting for?” Ardyn said.

Valia’s hand dipped down between his legs, cupping Ardyn’s cock, palming it through his satin trousers. “I was waiting for this, my lord.”

“Then I’ll test your patience no more,” Ardyn replied. With a flick of his wrist, he opened Valia’s robe. Then, with a second swift and sure motion, he had lifted him clear of the bed and turned him over onto elbows and knees.

Valia’s hands knotted in the sheets, kneading them in anticipation, as Ardyn shed the rest of his clothes. 

He had always been good like this: ever obedient, even eager. Ardyn supposed Valia had figured it out at some point: there had not been another for the prince before him. Even as a youth, Ardyn had been cold, suspicious, hesitant to let anyone touch him lest they place upon him some incomprehensible spell that might rob him of his resolve or steer him from his path. As for Valia, he had been well-used even before he came into Ardyn’s possession, which was the fate that generally befell pretty boys of no particular place and no particular people. Still, Valia swore he had never enjoyed it with anyone else, not even for a moment, and, though he knew it probably marked him as the most credulous fool in the realm, Ardyn might have even believed him.

Ardyn retrieve a vial of oil from the chest beside the bed, slicking it over his fingers as he returned to Valia’s side. He worked his fingers into him, first one, then a second, and a third.

Beneath him, Valia murmured and arched his back, his narrow hips working in time, pushing back to meet each stroke of Ardyn’s hand. He glanced back over his shoulder, and for a moment their eyes met. Ardyn set a hand on the back of the boy’s neck, holding him down, and knelt up behind him. 

Valia cried out the first time he thrust in, and on each thrust after that. His moans coming faster, more urgent, until Ardyn shoved his face into the blankets to muffle them. 

After it was done and Valia had cleaned them both with a soft cloth, he lay in Ardyn’s arms, fingers trailing through the dusting of red hair on his chest, tracing the scars there. Ardyn closed his eyes, half-dozing until Valia asked, “Where did this one come from?”

His fingers had found a pale white scar on the left side of his chest. It slashed across Ardyn’s pectoral muscle diagonally, from the center of the breastbone to just below the nipple.

“A Gralian archer,” Ardyn said without opening his eyes. “Their arrows are barbed. Hard to remove.”

“I thought it was where they took your heart out,” Valia said in a strange voice.

Ardyn set his hand over the boy’s fingers, guiding them up a few inches. “This is my heart.” He moved Valia’s hand back down again. “This is just a scar.”

“It must have hurt.”

“I suppose it did. I don’t remember the pain. I only remember the fighting. And then afterwards, the way the corpses lay all in mounds. The Gralians rejected our terms, so we put them to the sword. Burned their temples and their fields. The roads were lined for miles with the prisoners we crucified...”

Ardyn felt a curious heat on his chest where Valia’s head rested, and he stopped abruptly. Valia had, he realized, begun to cry.


	5. Chapter 5

Ardyn was gone long enough that Ignis’ arms had begun to throb. For a while, he was grateful that it took his attention off the stone thing inside him, the ring around his cock that kept it always painfully, achingly hard.

He couldn’t shift his stance, and eventually his knees buckled and he collapsed against the cables around his wrists. For a few minutes he hung there, listening to the joints of his shoulders creak under the strain. Five minutes on his feet, then five minutes hanging from his wrists; he focused on pushing through it, counting each breath. Every time he moved, the cock inside him shifted cruelly. He had a sinking feeling that Ardyn had already damaged something fundamental within him. 

Ignis wondered if he was coming back. For all he dreaded the man might return and inflict further violence upon him, he was now equally terrified that Ardyn might simply forget him down here, leaving him alone to break out of neglect.

Days might have passed like that, though it was more likely just a few hours, but eventually Ardyn did come back. When he heard the sound of the door unlatching, Ignis let out a short, yelping sob of relief before he could stop himself.

If Ardyn heard, he made no indication. He circled Ignis slowly, wrapping an arm around his waist to support him. Ignis was caught between repulsion and consolation, but his body was not nearly so picky. His trembling legs buckled, and he leaned against Ardyn’s shoulder, burying his face in the folds of his coat while he panted for breath, inhaling the sweet-sick smell of darkness and earth.

Ardyn said nothing. Though Ignis could still see the shape of him - like a tableau of deeper black on the blackness of his blighted sight - he had no idea what expression might be on his face, what he might be intending. At any moment, he might pull away again, might leave him alone once more.

“Please…” Ignis whispered before he knew he was going to speak.

“Please?” Ardyn echoed. “Please… what?”

“Please, let me down.”

“Time undoes us all in the end,” Ardyn said. “I thought that if I gave you a while to think it over, you might come to your senses. I’ll let you down. But what will you do for me?”

“Anything.”

“That is tempting,” Ardyn said. “But I prefer to deal in specifics. So tell me, boy, specifically, what you will do for me.”

Ignis felt his face flush with shame, but if there was a chance Ardyn would have mercy on him, then maybe he would be able to rally himself, think of something, make some move, strike a blow against him. That, at least, was what he told himself as he licked his dry lips and said, “Not like last time. I can’t. It would kill me. But you can have my mouth, willingly. How is that?”

“Amenable,” Ardyn replied. He brushed his fingertips over Ignis’ cock, teasing the head. “And what about this? Will we do something about this? I suppose my ego is all tied up in it. Will you come for me?”

Ignis nodded. “That too. Whatever you want.” 

“Then it sounds as if we have a deal,” Ardyn said. “Save for one small thing. You’ve been a bit casual in addressing your king, don’t you think? There is propriety to consider…”

Ignis tensed in his grasp. “I will never address you as king!” For an instant, there was steel in his voice once more. Badly corroded, but steel all the same. “Pretender to the throne.”

Ardyn snorted, pulling away. Ignis had not known how much he had been relying on Ardyn’s strength until it was abruptly withdrawn. His legs gave out, dropping his full weight onto his bound wrists. He heard a muffled explosion next to his ear as one of his shoulder joints separated.

He knew that he screamed then, but it was hard to hear over the blood thundering in his head. He could make out Ardyn’s voice well enough, though, when he said, “I’ll come back in an hour. Let us see if you have changed your mind.”

Ignis heard the latch draw back, the door swing open. He knew that he had only a moment before Ardyn was gone once more.

“Your Majesty!” he gasped out.

The door did not fall closed. Ardyn had paused; he was listening, or at least pretending to.

“Your Majesty,” Ignis tried again, more quietly. “Let me kneel before you.”

The latch snapped shut, but then Ignis heard the heavy tread of Ardyn’s boots, approaching once more. “So, the proud little hawk at last learns to respect the glove.” He fit his hand under Ignis’ chin, tilting it back. “That didn’t take as long as I thought it would.”

All at once the cables around Ignis’ wrists went slack. His hands slipped free and he collapsed to his knees with a sharp cry. The stone thing inside of him twisted deep, striking that pleasurable spot deep within. Through a haze of exhaustion and agony, a bolt of fresh arousal went through him. Then Ardyn’s fingers were on his jaw, drawing him close, coaxing him to tilt his head back.

Ignis reached for his belt. His fingers were numb and clumsy, but he managed to get the catch open, managed to slip a hand into Ardyn’s trousers and ease his cock out. Even soft, it was impressively long and thick. Ignis stroked it a few time, from the taut hood of foreskin stretched over the head to the crown of red curls at the base.

“Your hands are freezing,” Ardyn said. “Let’s hope that pretty mouth is warmer. Lick it.”

Obediently, Ignis shifted on his knees, guiding Ardyn’s cock to his lips. He swirled his tongue around the head, feeling the shaft twitch against his hand. As it began to stiffen, Ignis opened his mouth and let it slide past his lips.

His throat still felt raw and punished, but if he kept Ardyn’s cock in the front of his mouth it wasn’t unbearable. He bathed his tongue over the glans, working the shaft with his hand where his lips didn’t reach.

Ardyn made no sound. He stood perfectly still, his feet a little apart, as if lost in contemplation. Though he gave no indication that he was enjoying himself, his cock was soon fully erect, and a bead of cold, brackish pre-come had beaded on the head. Though it still disgusted him, Ignis lapped up the pitiful moisture; it soothed his parched and aching mouth.

At some point, Ignis had lost track of where he was, how he had come to be here. He had long since ceased to be able to feel anything as manifold as shame or horror at his position; even the complaints of his battered body seemed to slip away. There was only the hot, hard pulse of the organ in his throat, the way the manipulations of his lips and tongue seemed to be able to make it yearn towards him.

He could have loved it; he almost certainly would have if it were someone else. Perhaps, deep down, a part of him did love it, just like this.

“Now,” Ardyn snapped abruptly. Ignis was so shocked that Ardyn had warned him that he didn’t have any time to prepare himself. A gush of black semen shot down his throat, and Ignis made no move to expel it. He drank it down, savoring the way it settled on his empty stomach.

When Ardyn stepped back, pulling out of his mouth, Ignis collapsed forward onto his palms. He tried to raise himself, but failed. Then Ardyn knelt down and helped him up.

“I suppose you’re feeling quite proud of yourself.” He kissed Ignis’ parted lips, no doubt tasting himself there. “Still, one good turn deserves another.”

His fingertips moved in a half-circle around the base of Ignis’ cock, releasing whatever hidden mechanism held the ring in place. Ignis gasped as the pressure eased, sobbing softly in relief as Ardyn slid the ring off.

He cast about with his lips until he found Ardyn’s mouth. Though he stopped short of kissing him, he stayed there a moment, breathing against him.

Ardyn wrapped one hand around his shaft, stroking it slowly. With the other, he reached behind, pressing his fingertips against the base of the stone cock, nudging against it so that it moved inside of him.

Ignis lasted less than a minute. An orgasm ripped through him, tearing a hoarse cry from his raw throat. His entire body was trembling, so hard it felt like convulsions, and he collapsed, shivering, in Ardyn’s arms. He knew right where he was, knew how he should have fought it, and yet he could not.

He felt Ardyn’s fingertips pass over his face, drawing him down into black unconsciousness. “Sleep, little hawk. I’ll deal with that broken wing.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2018! Here's a quick little morsel before I head out for the evening.

In the peaceful days in the twilight of his reign, the Lucian king habitually traveled with only a small entourage. On the bright morning that he departed to take Noctis to Tenebrae where he would meet his intended, there were only four cars in the motorcade.

Ignis held his breath as they passed the last of the provincial grainlands. He no longer remembered exactly where his family’s villa lay along the road, but he knew that, as the final field gave way to uncultivated desert, he was without a doubt beyond it. Further now than he had ever been before. 

He had done his best to read up on Tenebrae before departing. It seemed to him that the best way to serve a prince who was ten years old and already all but betrothed to a girl he had never met was to remain as unflustered and unobtrusive as possible. For the whole interminable trip, he had cast his mind over the finer points of Tenebrain etiquette. While Noctis and Gladio fought over a handheld game in the backseat, Ignis started out the window, his eyes dreamy and unseeing, while he quizzed himself on the minutiae of Tenebrae’s parliament, offerings to the Oracle, import tariffs.

It didn’t bother him that he did so alone. In fact, he preferred it this way. He felt useful. 

When the silvery spires of the palace finally came into view, he was relieved that they were as delicate and beautiful as the books had described. The streets had been strewn with flowers in advance of the royal retinue’s arrival, and the glass mosaics that lined the Processional Way had been polished until they gleamed.

Even Cor, who had spent most of the journey looking rather sullen and irritated in the passenger seat of His Majesty’s car, managed a compliment or two. His praise was reserved for the stables, mostly, which was where Ignis found him on the second morning of their visit, out behind one of the paddocks, covertly smoking a cigarette.

When he saw Ignis coming, Cor was quick to grind the cherried end out on the sole of one of his Hessian boots. He made sure it was well extinguished before flicking it aside.

“Whatever you thought you just saw--” Cor started. 

“I was surely mistaken,” Ignis replied. “I’m nearsighted.”

He felt a smile creeping over his lips, and he risked a glance up at Cor’s face. Though he felt a little foolish, he knew he was not the first young man to fairly writhe in pleasure at being acknowledged by the Immortal. 

“You here for the riding?” Cor said. “They’ve got some damn fine horses, but they won’t let you see what they can really do. I just spent two hours prancing around in a circle while the chancellor’s sons nattered in my ear about the price of silk handkerchiefs or some fucking thing.”

“I’m not here for the riding,” Ignis said quietly, secretly thrilled that Cor had seen fit to take him into his confidences enough to say a swear. “I’m surveying the grounds.”

Cor shook his head. “Ever feel like you’re somebody’s poor relation, kid?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Ignis said. He wondered, with not a little alarm, if that was how people saw him.

“I mean, if I have to spend one more second trying to figure out which fork to use for a plate of virgin pussy hairs in unicorn piss sauce, I’m going to run away and take up with the first pack of bandits that can still stand to be around me.”

“Those were braised songbird tongues,” Ignis said, his eyes downcast. “In a truffle demi-glace.”

“Fuck,” Cor said, eloquently. He reached beneath the lapel of his coat, into his shirt pocket, and retrieved a silver flask. Unscrewing the cap, he upended it for a long drink before replacing it. “All right, all right. Come on, then. I’ll take you back inside. Can’t have you wandering around out here when you should be in there making the rest of us look good.”

He started back towards the palace so abruptly that Ignis had to jog to keep up with his long strides. “That wasn’t my intention,” he said, trotting at Cor’s elbow. “I’m only here for His Highness.”

“Then why aren’t you with him?”

“He consults with the Oracle Successor.”

“Her?” Cor said. He became suddenly tight-lipped, even reticent. “Seems like a nice young lady, don’t you think?”

“She does her duty admirably,” Ignis replied. “You don’t like her?”

“You think I’m going to insult the honor of a ten-year-old girl?”

“I didn’t mean…” Embarrassed, Ignis looked away.

“Forget I said anything,” Cor muttered. “The girl is fine. The girl is wonderful. Too good for us, that’s for damn sure. But I don’t like thinking that the old men who run the world just wave their hands and those two snot-nosed kids are engaged. Before either of them are even old enough to know what that means.”

Ignis glanced at him, stealing a look at his face from beneath his lashes. He could not read the look on Cor’s face, could not even tell if he was being serious. “We all must do our duty,” he said softly. “The Oracle knows what that means. Noctis… he knows it too, I believe that.”

“Kid,” Cor sighed. “You’re exhausting.”

They passed through the gate into one of the great halls of the palace. Cor kicked at the plush carpet with the toe of his boot. “This place makes me feel like I hired the finest whore in the house to put on her daintiest silk slippers and stomp on my balls a few times.”

Before Ignis could respond, a young page trotted up to them. “Hail, Marshal. I’m glad I found you. His Majesty King Regis awaits you in his chambers.”

“Is that right?” Cor said. He turned to Ignis. “Sorry kid, duty calls. The boss probably wants me to take some dictation or something.”

Ignis glanced up at Cor’s face, stealing only the briefest of glances at him. He had known something of Cor’s relationship with the king for some time now, perhaps since the first moment he had laid eyes on them. Even before he realized he had noticed something awry, his mind had already been at work on the question of why Cor had been alone in the king’s study that night, all those years ago.

By now, he had pretty well figured it out, though, as usual, the precise details eluded him. He was struck by a sudden and intense desire to ask Cor if he was happy. Right now, like this, or ever.

Instead, he just lowered his eyes. “I’ll be all right, Marshal. My thanks for the escort.”

“Be good,” Cor said. “And don’t worry. We’ll be on our way home soon.”

He moved to follow the page, bobbing his head so he could spit covertly into his palm and slick his hair back from his brow.

Ignis felt a tingling heat on his cheeks, and he realized he was blushing. He lifted a hand to his face to shield it, making a great show of adjusting his glasses. The great hall was all but empty now. Noctis was still in conference with the Oracle Successor; Gladio had gone to the armory with his father. Quietly, unobtrusively, Ignis withdrew to the periphery, boosting himself up onto one of the hard, straight-backed chairs. He folded his hands primly in his lap, preparing to wait until he was needed.

An hour passed, then two. No one came for him and so Ignis presumed that they were engaged. All at once, a commotion at the far end of the hall caught his attention.

A procession of four people swept without announcement or fanfare through the main gates that came from the city. At their head was a young man in battered and stained hunting armor. He was older than Ignis by only a few years, and yet he seemed self-possessed, purposeful. There was a sword at his belt, a fact which impressed itself strongly upon Ignis, for they had all given up their weapons at the city gate. Even Cor had handed over his katana with a sour look on his face so that they might avoid offending the Tenebraians, who habitually went unarmed.

Like his armor, the hunter’s blade was plain in nature, functional rather than decorative. The hilt was carved in the shape of a dolphin, but other than that it had no ornamentation.

As he came inside, he lifted off his crested helm, revealing a great mass of platinum hair matted down around his face with sweat.

Ignis gasped, averting his eyes. He had not thought Ravus would make an appearance during their visit. Already halfway between pariah and traitor in Tenebrae, the general consensus had been that the Oracle Successor’s brother would stay away, if not out of shame then at least out of good taste.

At first it seemed that Ravus would simply pass through, go about whatever business had brought him back to this place that was barely home to him and then return to the outlands of the Empire. But as he crossed the hall, he spotted Ignis and approached.

When Ravus first started towards him, Ignis sprang to his feet, smoothing his hands over the front of his black court clothes. But then, as he drew nearer, and Ignus realized the full disparity of their heights, and ages, and experience, he shrunk away, dropping his gaze to the floor.

“Stop that!” Ravus commanded.

“My lord?” Ignis could not make his voice come out as more than a strangled gasp. He was horrified that he had done something to draw the wrath of this man, who they said ran with beasts, consorted with demons, boasted that his blade would cut the very sun from the sky.

“Don’t cringe and cower. It makes me sick, seeing you flinch like that. You’re a man, aren’t you? Then look at me as men do.”

Ignis caught his breath. Though he would have liked nothing more than to continue studying the marble pattern on the floor tiles until Ravus went away, he forced himself to raise his gaze. Ravus was watching him like a predator, his eyes staring steady and unblinking out of a face raw from wind and sun.

“That’s better,” Ravus said. “I saw you from atop the wall. I remember you.”

“You must have me mistaken for someone else." Even if Ravus had watched the procession enter the city, Ignis did not think he would have taken notice of him, that he would have remembered. Not with the king, and the crown prince, and the legendary Immortal so near at hand. “I am a servant in the House of Caeum.”

“Quiet,” Ravus said, as if Ignis had personally offended him. “I remember you. Do you think I’m stupid?”

“I don’t, my lord,” Ignis whispered. He looked away again, down at his hands that had knotted into fists before him. “I don’t think that.”

“You struck me as such a serious boy. But with such sad eyes. I didn’t know what to make of it. I still do not.”

“I don’t…” Ignis stammered, bewildered. “I didn’t presume… I just serve the prince, my lord.”

“Why?” Ravus demanded.

“Because I must!” Ignis felt tears coming to his eyes. Ravus seemed determined to ask nonsensical questions, just for the sake of toying with him. The man was a monster, just as they had all said. “Because my father pledged me to the royal court. Because it is my duty.”

“Is that it?”

“What else could there possibly be?”

“Little servant to the prince,” Ravus said. “Little cleaner of royal messes. Your father was an idiot. He had a diamond and he cast it into a sea of cut glass. The loss is his, not yours.”

Ignis looked up again, his eyes sharp. Hot fury had taken hold within his breast, and he felt it spreading rapidly through him. He may have been nothing more than a servant, but he would not be humiliated by a disgrace.

But to Ignis’ surprise, Ravus was not watching him with malice. His weathered face had relaxed, and some of the hard lines had smoothed out from around his mouth and eyes. He rested a fist over his heart in a salute, bending his head. Ignis was tempted to pull away from the sudden movement, but this time he held his ground.

“Enjoy our hospitality, House Caeum. There may not be another chance at it.”

Before Ignis could think of a single thing to say, Ravus had turned on his heel and vanished into the palace.


	7. Chapter 7

Ignis did not remember being moved through the cold and inhospitable halls of the Imperial capital, but when he came to he could tell he was no longer in the dungeon. The bone-deep chill that he had felt in that forgotten, subterranean place was absent. Here, at least, was somewhere that remembered the sun’s warmth, even if it did not seem to have felt it in a long time.

He was not a little surprised to find that he had been lain to sleep in a bed - a real one, with pillows and cotton sheets that were threadbare but clean. His body ached in every limb, but, at some point while he slept, he had been bathed and his wounds had been dressed. Though his dislocated shoulder still throbbed as if deeply bruised, Ignis could tell when he moved it experimentally that it had been set.

Slowly, he sat up, and felt a weight shift around his neck. When he reached up to explore it with his fingers, he realized it was a collar of thick leather. It was secured with a length of chain, the other end of which was looped around the iron headboard of the bed.

Ignis wrapped the chain around his fist and pulled on it hard. It rattled against the headboard, but neither seemed about to give way.

A wave of shame washed over him, and Ignis wrapped his arms around his midsection, holding himself until it had abated. His breath came in soft, sobbing gasps, but he didn’t cry. Though his eyes burned, they remained dry. He didn’t deserve to weep, not after what he had done. Practically begged for it, there on his knees. All to spare himself a little pain. Pain that he should have suffered gladly, with the king’s name on his lips.

No, he was undeserving of anyone’s pity, even his own.

Blinking back tears, Ignis continued to explore what he could reach. He was wearing a light robe, threadbare and fraying at the seams, but made of what had once been fine silk. It was belted loosely around his waist, left open over the chest so that it slipped off his shoulder when he moved. Underneath the robe, he was naked, the silk shifting coolly over his bare skin.

On a table next to the bed, he found a plate with a loaf of bread and cold, unseasoned meat. His stomach tightened, and though he had his doubts about eating anything that might have been tainted by the foul air of this place, he fairly threw himself on the food and gulped it down.

It was just as he finished that Ardyn returned.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Ignis said when he heard the familiar soft tread.

“Not at the moment,” Ardyn purred. He sounded faintly amused. “But I’ve waited a long time. I can certainly wait a little longer. Especially with such charming company to occupy my time.”

“So you’ve come to ravish me again?” Ignis tilted his chin back defiantly. “Not very original, is it?”

Ardyn let slip a breath of laughter. “You're such a temperamental whore.”

The mattress shifted as Ardyn knelt on it. A moment later, Ignis felt hands on his waist, pulling him back irresistibly, until he could feel Ardyn’s hot breath against the side of his face. He gave the chain around Ignis’ neck a tug, hard enough that the collar cut into his throat. “Didn’t you like the jewelry I got you?”

Ignis bit his lip and stayed silent. The collar was just another humiliation on top of many; it was better than the dungeon.

For his part, Ardyn seemed to care very little if Ignis replied or not. He had already unknotted the silk robe and his hands were roaming over Ignis’ naked chest. “I’m glad I had you washed. You were starting to stink.”

His fingers brushed over one of Ignis’ nipples, and then returned to pinch it roughly. Ignis squirmed in his hold, feeling the tiny bud of flesh harden. 

“That’s right,” Ardyn purred against his ear. “I think we both prefer it this way. Just give in, boy. I have seen your true nature.”

He began to tease the other nipple, kissing the back of Ignis’ shoulder while he did so.

“What do you want?” Ignis gasped. “Why are you doing this?”

“That's all you have to say for yourself?” Ardyn said. “I had heard so much of your cleverness. I thought it would be obvious by now.”

He set his hands on Ignis’ waist, turning him onto his back. Though his touch was gentle, it could not be contradicted or denied. Ignis moved with him before he even thought that he should resist. When he did remember to fight, the most he could manage was to push ineffectually at Ardyn’s shoulders as he settled his weight on top of him.

Ardyn batted his hands aside as if they were nothing. With a flick of his wrist, he pushed Ignis’ legs apart, laying him open.

“Such lovely thighs,” he murmured. “You were made to please men.”

Ardyn dipped his head, and all at once his mouth was on the inside of Ignis’ thigh, kissing the taut and trembling muscle that ran from the hollow of his hip. His rough stubble scraped against Ignis’ most sensitive flesh, and he felt himself torn between the soft coaxing of Ardyn’s mouth and the rough burn of his cheek.

He moaned softly, and then clamped a hand over his mouth to keep any further sound from slipping out.

“Why?” he tried again. “Why me? Why torment me like this? You’re bound to at least tell me that.”

Ardyn paused in what he was doing, his lips still pressed to Ignis’ thigh. His tongue flicked out, gently tasting the salt on his skin, and then he abruptly sank his teeth in. Ignis screamed, more out of surprise than pain, though upon reflection it had hurt quite a bit. When Ardyn pulled back, Ignis could already feel a bruise forming, hot under the rapidly cooling sheen of saliva.

“I am bound to tell you nothing,” Ardyn said. “I am bound to do nothing for you.”'

But all at once, he demeanor softened. Their faces were very close, and Ignis could feel Ardyn’s hot breath on his face when he spoke. “I’m doing this because I saw you, and I wanted you. And you can fight all you want, but we both know how things will end.”

He dragged his fingers through Ignis’ hair, brushing it back from his brow. “Why don’t you surrender, boy? Admit that you want this? Very soon, this world is going to end. All will be dark, and I will sit the throne. King over a land of corpses.”

“No…” Ignis started to say, but Ardyn silenced him with a kiss.

“You could be my concubine, my whore of Babylon. I think I would like that very much. You and I, together as the world ends.”

Ignis felt tears come to his eyes, and he could do nothing but let them fall. He felt that he could scarcely catch his breath, as if Ardyn were drawing the life out of him by his proximity.

“Ardyn…” he managed to gasp, though his voice caught on the name. “What happened to you?”

Ardyn was silent for a moment, and then he laughed. It was just one short, sharp hissing noise, but Ignis knew that it had been a sound of genuine amusement.

“I suppose a great many things befell me, my boy, and I befell a great many things. Very few are suitable to talk about in the bedchamber, though. You’d shed more than a few crocodile tears if I told you everything. And besides, it would ruin the mood.”

Ignis’ expression tightened. “Then you’d best have your way with me and get it over with.”

“If you insist,” Ardyn said darkly, wrenching Ignis’ thighs apart once more so that he could settle his hips between them. Ignis gasped as the hard ridge of Ardyn’s erection dug into him. He tensed, but didn’t struggle. It did no good; Ardyn would only hurt him, and if he was pleased then he might not.

Ardyn unbuckled his belt, tugging his cock out and teasing the damp head along the inside of Ignis’ thigh. “Lift your hips up.”

Swallowing a knot of shame, Ignis tilted his hips back, giving Ardyn better access.

“Good,” Ardyn said. He took hold of his prick at the base, guiding the head to press against Ignis’ opening without entering him. “Do you like having this inside you? Do you want it?”

Ignis didn’t answer, but the low tenor of Ardyn’s voice more than the words he spoke continued to work upon him. He felt the blood pulse in his groin, making his cock stir and his sack draw up taut against his body.

“I think that you do,” Ardyn went on. His hand was doing some slow, careful work between their bodies, slicking oil over himself. “The sight of you in chains always makes me unbearably hard. Do you think you can take all of this? You’re such a delicate little thing.”

He ran his fingers down Ignis’ abdomen, from his navel to the top of his pubic bone. “Put your hand here when it’s inside you. You’ll be able to feel it, moving.”

Ignis felt a combination of disgust and arousal swelling inside him. He tried to draw away, but Ardyn landed a stinging slap on his hip. “Keep your legs spread. I didn’t tell you to move.”

Before Ignis could react, Ardyn had pressed the head of his cock against his entrance and slid in with one savage thrust, seating himself completely within him. Ignis cried out, though it had not hurt as much as he might have expected, or hoped. His hands flew to Ardyn’s shoulders to clutch at them, but Ardyn caught his wrists and pushed them back to the bed, pinning them to the mattress.

“Don’t touch me unless I give you permission.” Ardyn began to move his hips, thrusting viciously, fast and hard.

He bent over Ignis’ body to get a better angle. “Wrap your legs around me.”

Trembling but unhesitant, Ignis lifted his thighs so he could wrap them around Ardyn’s trim hips, crossing his ankles over his ass. He could hear his pulse thundering in his head, his own breath coming in sharp, sucking gasps.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” Ardyn said. He shifted his grip on Ignis’ wrists so that he held both in one hand, and then lowered the other to wrap it around Ignis’ cock. “Good little boys get all kinds of treats.”

Ignis whimpered as Ardyn stroked him in time with his thrusts. He could feel his cock pulsing deep inside him, like a lash driving him forward towards orgasm. Though he chewed his lips, the pain only seemed to make the pleasure keener, harder to ignore.

Stars exploded before Ignis’ eyes, like a memory of the light he could no longer see. For a moment, he was lost to it, his hips arching mindlessly against Ardyn’s hand as he came, his own hot semen splattering his stomach and chest. When he got hold of himself once more, he felt a familiar coldness spreading inside him. Ardyn had finished, riding the frantic spasms of Ignis’ body into his own orgasm. He was still inside him, though, moving slowly while his cock was still hard.

“God…” Ignis moaned. 

His legs were still wrapped loosely around Ardyn’s hips. He tried to unwind one, but Ardyn caught his thigh, holding it in place. “Shh,” he crooned. “Do you feel that?”

Ignis stared up at the ceiling. “I feel it.”

“So much darkness,” Ardyn murmured. “For some reason, you can take it. What’s inside me doesn’t hurt you. Are you really so pure, boy?”

“I’m not pure,” Ignis whispered, feeling his throat tighten. “I’m not that good.”

“It’s quiet now,” Ardyn said. There was something strange in his voice, something like relief. “When I’m with you, it gets quiet for a moment. I can almost forget--”

A knock at the door interrupted him, a short brisk rap of the knuckle that Ignis recognized as preceding a bit of official business. Ardyn let out his breath in an annoyed snort. “Enter!” he called, though he made no move to pull out or cover himself.

“No!” Ignis cried. “What are you doing? You’re mad.”

“Shut up,” Ardyn snapped, cuffing him across the mouth with the back of his hand. 

A young page with his face scarred by burns let himself into the bed chamber. “Sir--” he started, then stopped abruptly. Ignis flushed with shame as he felt the young man’s brazen stare move over him.

“Damn you, spit it out,” Ardyn said. “And keep your piggish little eyes off my whore.”

He thrust Ignis aside, getting out of bed. Ignis whimpered as he felt the softening cock slip out of him.

“General Ravus is here,” the page stammered out. “He’s demanding to see you.”

“Is that so?” Ardyn said. He arranged his clothing, retrieving his hat from the bedpost and setting it atop his head. “So he’s come to beg my forgiveness for his little indiscretion earlier. After those hysterics, I ought to roast him alive in an iron bull. Though I suppose if he has seen the true nature of his situation, then he has realized he has nowhere else to go…”

He glanced back at Ignis, who had managed to gather the silk robe around himself once more. “Perhaps I’ll tell him that you're here. It might cure that stupid boy of some of his notions.”

Ignis turned his face away, clutching his robe close at the throat. The mention of Ravus’ name had been like a violent shock. A specter of that other life before he had been cursed to darkness; a man who had known him as he thought he was, before Ardyn had so casually and capably torn aside his illusions.

Whether he had returned to ally himself once more with the Empire, or for some other, more obscure purpose known only to him, Ravus must never find out that he was here. That, Ignis knew, really would kill him.

“You don’t like that?” Ardyn said, taking in Ignis’ bent posture and downcast eyes. “No matter. I suppose other arrangements can be made. That particular bloodline is no longer needed.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another quick bit of backstory for Ardyn. I hope you guys don't mind OC's, because they're kind of a necessary evil here.

Prince Ardyn was away with a hunting party when his younger brother arrived unannounced. It had been an inopportune time to leave the palace, even without the visit, but Ardyn needed such escapes from court life. Valia knew that he chafed under the responsibilities of prince regent, that most of the time he did not even want the title.

Though he had wasted no time in having a great obelisk erected to commemorate his victories, in chiseling the names of the Old Dynasty kings off their statues, in founding no less than three cities that bore his name, these things were but diversions and curiosities to him. Valia had begun to suspect that he only did them to see if he could get away with them, if it was true that all was permitted him now that he was king.

What he did not realize was that it was not the ostentatious displays that fueled the stinging tongues of his detractors. It was the fact that he seemed to care so little for them, treating them only as an excuse to deplete the royal treasury so that he might mount more raids, more wars. He was ever restless for battle, never content unless he had a sword in his hand and a strong horse between his thighs.

Valia did not understand it himself, though he had tried, but Ardyn seemed to have very little regard for whether he was understood or not. The son of a red-haired huntress and the leader of a gang of bandits, Ardyn had been born before his father had begun to unite the warring tribes. He could still remember the way the world used to be, when a man had little he could rely on in life, but even less to answer to.

If that was the case, then Valia did not have much hope that the conceptual gulf between them would ever be bridged. He knew that he could never come to follow the old ways, and Ardyn had little interest in learning to adapt to the new.

Nothing but trouble could come from it, and Valia felt sure that trouble enough would be upon them soon. It wouldn’t hurt to cultivate allies for when that time came, and so when Valia heard that Ardyn’s brother was on his way to the palace, he dressed in his finest silks and ordered extravagant gifts prepared. With a cheerful smile on his lips and a ring with a blazing red stone glinting on his hand, he went out to meet the caravan.

Lucius Gaeus traveled simply, with an escort of only three guards. Quintus Antinous rode at his right side. He was Lucius Gaeus’ advisor, rarely separate from him. Once, Valia had asked Ardyn about the true nature of their relationship, and received a flood of the most colorful perversity in response. He didn’t know how much of it to believe.

Whatever the case may have been, Quintus Antinous had a sterling reputation and, Valia recalled from the few occasions that he had met the man in the past, very kind eyes. He found himself seeking them out for reassurance as he came down to receive the pair in the hall.

Lucius Gaeus was dressed as a priest of Shiva, in dark blue robes stitched with crystal beads. A great deal of ice-blue kohl lined his eyes. Lucius had taken a vow to the goddess when he was still a teenager. Without the blessing of his father or elder brother, he had taken a garrison of the army and traveled to the northern mountains, where snow lay on the peaks all year, to found a temple in the goddess’ heart. 

He had remained there with Quintus Antinous at his side ever since, tolerated by father and brother in turn. The Cult of Shiva was a powerful ally to have, and Lucius Gaeus seemed to keep them placated.

Valia bowed low in greeting. “Noble Caeum, beloved of our Lady. This is a pleasant surprise. My master is away, but I have dispatched scouts to fetch him.”

“There’s no rush,” Lucius said. “I have heard tales of my brother’s tireless labor here. He has, by all accounts, earned his rest. Even the hearts of humble priests long to see the wonders that man’s hand has laid.”

“And how do you find them, lord?”

“I think that even the goddess herself might stoop from her starry hall to have a better look.”

“The prince regent will be pleased to hear that. Please, come in. Accept our hospitality.”

Lucius and Quintus Antinous followed him inside. The prince’s brother lagged behind a little, admiring the mosaics that lined the walls, but Quintus Antinous stepped briskly to Valia’s side.

“Is all well with the prince?” he asked.

Valia glanced at him, wondering if he was insinuating something about Ardyn’s capability. But Quintus’ smile was disarming, his eyes sympathetic and understanding, coaxing Valia into lowering his guard.

“He’s gone riding so he can think. He says being alone in nature helps him clear his mind.”

“The head that wears the crown always rests heavy,” Quintus Antinous said. “He’s lucky to have you. Even in the north, we hear much of your devotion.”

“And we of yours, my lord,” Valia replied. He stole a glance at Quintus Antinous’ face. His black hair was tucked back under a blue travelling scarf, a few strands having worked their way free to lay in sharp relief against his dark skin. His eyes, already large for his face, were fringed with long, girlish lashes that made them appear even bigger. It was their color that Valia had always secretly envied: a vibrant sea green.

“My devotion to the goddess, you mean,” Quintus Antinous said with a smile in his voice.

“His devotion to all to whom he owes allegiance.” Lucius Gaeus broke abruptly into the conversation. He had moved up behind them so softly that Valia had not heard him draw near. Embarrassed, he dropped his gaze from Quintus’ handsome face, worried that he would offend Ardyn’s brother.

“To do one’s duty without hesitation or question is an admirable thing,” Lucius continued. “Though our first obligation is to the gods, we must not forget what we owe to worthy men.”

“Fortunately, you make that easy, my love,” Quintus Antinous said, laughing. “Don’t bombard the young man with a sermon. If you’re good, maybe he’ll feed us.”

“Supper has already been laid out,’ Valia said briskly, glad for the chance to recover. “I had the kitchen prepare a fitting meal as soon as I heard that you were coming.”

He led them into the dining hall, where the tables had been laid with platters of fruit and pastries. Two large jugs of fine wine from the cellar had been unsealed for the occasion. Valia cast a careful and discerning eye over the spread to ensure that the fare was befitting the brother of a king.

“Oh, dear,” Lucius sighed. “This is not right at all.”

Valia stiffened. “My lord?”

“You misunderstand, child. We are but poor priests, undeserving of such luxury. I’m sorry, but we cannot, in good conscience, partake of this.”

Valia was flustered. “Forgive me,” he stammered. “I didn’t think… didn’t know…”

“You meant well,” Quintus Antinous said, smoothing over the awkwardness with an easy smile. “And we are flattered by the sentiment. Let’s not allow such fine food to go to waste. We will give it to the poor, and take a simpler repast.”

“Yes,” Lucius said. “I noticed a great number of beggars in the streets. Surely my brother strives mightily to keep his people from the misery of poverty. Allow the humble devotees of Shiva to do our part as well.”

Taken aback, Valia bowed to the high priest. “I’ll arrange it, my lord. It is good work, to help those in need. I know the prince cares for the poor. He says that they must labor for their supper, but he’s ordered many public works projects. And then there is the army. There are always opportunities--”

He realized he was babbling, and he closed his mouth so quickly that his teeth clicked together. He felt that he was blushing, but was powerless to prevent it.

“The high priest and I have brought our own food from the temple,” Quintus Antinous said. “There’s no need to go out of your way for us. See that this is distributed to those who need it, and your generosity will reflect well on your master.”

Lucius glanced between the two of them, his eyes narrowing under heavily-painted lids. “Yes, bread and spring water, blessed by ice and frost. We would be honored if you would join us.”

“I’m just a servant, my lord,” Valia said. “I would not presume to intrude.”

“All men our equal in the icy eye of our goddess. Join us. I insist.”

“Do as you wish, Valia,” Quintus Antinous said. His voice sounded strange, and Valia was surprised to see that he was no longer smiling. “Don’t feel obligated to come.”

Valia dipped a quick bow, and then, overwhelmed, scurried off to oversee the distribution of the food. He was ashamed by his presumption, and afraid that the priests might think that he had sought to bribe or sway them with the show of wealth. By the time the many dishes had been cleared away, Valia was convinced that he must go and apologize again, so that Lucius not think less of him, or Ardyn.

Squaring his shoulders, he went to the rooms he had set aside for the priests and their entourage. When he entered, he found Lucius Gaeus and Quintus Antinous alone, their heads bent close in conversation over a jug of wine.

Lucius sprang to his feet when Valia entered. “You’ve come, child. I’m pleased.”

He put an arm around Valia’s shoulders, drawing him inside. Though his manner was warm and easy, Valia was troubled when he glanced at Quintus Antinous and saw that he was watching them warily.

Lucius led him to the table, which was laid with fruit, cheese, and figs.

“I thought you ate only bread and water,” Valia said as Lucius prodded him onto a pile of cushions.

“I suppose even the best priests cheat once in a while,” Lucius said. “We were hungry after the journey.”

When Lucius sat down close at Valia’s side, Quintus Antinous stirred from his seat. “Let me pour for you, my lord,” he said, gracefully folding back his long sleeves and reaching for the jug of wine.

“Nonsense,” Lucius said. “The boy can do it.”

Quintus froze, his hands still halfway to the jug in the center of the table. Lucius met his eyes across the table, and Quintus withdrew.

“Allow me,” Valia said, encouraged since it seemed that the priests did not hold his earlier lapse in judgement against him. Pouring for them at table was the least he could do to make up for his foolishness. He picked up the jug and filled Lucius’ cup with a steady, practiced hand.

Lucius watched him with admiration. “You have very delicate wrists. I understand now what my brother sees in you.”

“We’ve been together for a long time now,” Valia said.

“Yes, I heard all about it.” Lucius took the cup and drained it in a gulp. He thrust it back towards Valia so he could pour again. “How he snatched you off a pile of plunder, raised you to the status of a concubine. Such a lot of trouble to go to for a slave. It fits with all the trouble he causes everyone else.”

Valia kept his eyes downcast, though he tensed as he listened. It was true, every word, and yet Lucius had no right to say it. He, who had retreated to a mountain temple, placing miles of glacial ice between himself and his brother’s struggles.

“You are lovely, though,” Lucius conceded. His hand came to rest on Valia’s knee, creeping up his thigh. “Ardyn has the bad taste of a barbarian, but he did manage to get it right with you.”

Valia was frozen. He wanted to pull away, but he feared what would happen if he did. If he was obedient, it would be over quickly enough. Ardyn would return, and things could go back to how they had been. He wouldn’t have to know.

“Lucius, stop.” Quintus Antinous had stirred from his seat, leaning over to set a hand on the priest’s wrist, halting its progress. “Leave him be. He doesn’t like you doing that.”

“Is that so?” Lucius’ grip tightened abruptly, his fingers cutting bruises into Valia’s thigh. “He is welcome to speak up if that is the case.”

“Look at his face.” Quintus Antinous sighed. “You know I hate it when you get like this.”

Lucius scowled. “And I hate it when you’re jealous. I wasn’t going to keep him all to myself. We’ll share him.”

Something in Valia’s breast seemed to shake loose all at once. He tore himself free of Lucius’ grip, springing to his feet. His knee struck the table as he stood, knocking a plate and a few pieces of cutlery to the floor.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a trembling voice, backing away. “My lord, forgive me if I misled you. It was not what I wanted. Ardyn will be back soon…”

“Yes, and he would be furious if he knew.” Lucius waved his hand dismissively. “I certainly won’t tell him.” 

“It’s not that,” Valia said softly. “I love him. He’s the only one I want. I’m so sorry, my lord.”

Lucius regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then, all at once, his face softened back into the benevolent lines of a temple priest. “All right, child. I understand. I underestimated your sense of duty.”

He motioned to items that had fallen to the floor. “Clean up this mess, and go back to your lover.”

“Yes, my lord,” Valia replied. Though Quintus Antinous still looked a little ill at ease, it seemed to Valia that he had managed to escape. A priest should be fair, after all, and benevolent. Relieved, he dropped to his knees and began to gather up the spilled cutlery.

He had to reach under the table to retrieve a fallen knife, and as he straightened up he realized a shadow had been cast over him. Before he could turn towards it, a heavy blow struck him across the face and sent him spiraling down into darkness.

Valia came to within a few minutes. He was stretched out on the floor, his throbbing head pressed against the cool tile. Lucius and Quintus Antinous were on their feet nearby; though their voices were pitched low, they were arguing.

“I will not allow you to do this,” Quintus Antinous said. “What you intend is a sin against the goddess.”

“Fratricide is a sin,” Lucius replied, “and yet the goddess wills it. She who makes and breaks the fortunes of kings, what is the life of a slave to her?”

“That boy is innocent.”

Lucius smiled grimly. “Innocent? My love, you are mistaken. You saw him reach for the knife. He had designs on my life. Had I not been inspired by the divine breath of the goddess, he surely would have cut me down.”

“Think of your brother, what he will do. He’s irrational at the best of times.”

“It is my brother’s own laws by which we must abide. He is the one who punishes accused criminals swiftly, in secret, without a trial. We are in his home, and so we must follow his custom, no matter how irrational it seems.”

“Lucius…” Quintus Antinous turned away, covering his mouth with his hand. “Do as the goddess wills, but I cannot. Forgive me, but I won’t be a part of this.”

“Then wait here,” Lucius said. “Fear not, I will take care of everything. Your hands will remain clean.”

He took hold of Quintus Antinous’ shoulders, turning him so he could press a kiss to his brow. Then he turned on his heels and swept out of the room.

Once he was gone, Valia attempted to raise himself. His head pounded, and he moaned softly. Seeing him move, Quintus Antinous rushed to kneel at his side. “You’re awake. Would that you were not.”

“What’s happening?” Valia said. “What is he doing?”

“He intends to have you punished.”

Valia’s stomach sank. “Because I would not make love with him?”

“No, not that. Something else. You should not even be involved.”

“When Ardyn returns…” Valia began. He didn’t know how to finish, but even saying that much aloud comforted him.

“Yes,” Quintus Antinous said. “The prince can set all to right. I’ll send swift riders to fetch him. And you… you must pray that he comes in time.”

He clasped Valia’s shoulder briefly, then pushed to his feet and was gone.


	9. Chapter 9

When Ardyn was in a good mood, he let Ignis off the chain. It was nice to get up and stretch his legs, even if Ardyn did keep him locked in. Ignis had used the little freedom he was allowed to explore every inch of the modest apartment, and he didn’t need eyes to know that the accommodations were singularly unpleasant.

The walls were made of steel panels, without so much as a single window in them. Aside from the bed, there was not a hint of softness to be found. That included the master, who still came to him with regularity.

Ignis didn’t fight him anymore. There was little point. Ardyn had not hurt him again, not since the first time, but Ignis knew that might change at any moment. Better to keep Ardyn satiate for the time being. He wasn’t going anywhere as he was, but he held out hope that if he was patient, his chance might come.

That was what he told himself, that his acquiescence was merely strategy, but he was rapidly losing the ability to deceive himself. When Ardyn left him alone for too long, Ignis began to grow restless. In truth, he was bored out of his mind, a boredom that was compounded by the sensory deprivation resulting from his lost sight. At least Ardyn’s hands were something to focus on; at least his visits gave Ignis something to do.

That was not to say that he was not concerned about the icy black muck that Ardyn pumped into him with regularity. Sometimes it seemed his could still feel it inside him. Ignis knew that it was tainted - poison to any creature that lived in the light - and yet it seemed to have had little or no negative effect on him. Still, he could well imagine that dark toxin working within him, changing him irreversibly from the inside out.

Perhaps it had already left its mark on him. If he ever got out of here, surely everyone would know at a glance what he had done.

Though it was hard to keep track of time, it seemed that Ardyn had been gone for much longer than usual. When he at last returned, he seemed distracted, even tense. He sat on the edge of the bed and was quiet for a while, until Ignis could no longer stand it. Leaning over, he placed a hand on Ardyn’s shoulder.

“I suppose it’s not an attack of conscience, is it?” he said.

Ardyn set his hand over Ignis’, drawing it up to his mouth so that he could kiss the inside of his wrist. “And what if it was?”

Ignis shivered. “I suppose it’s too late for that. Though something has to happen eventually, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, we are truly in limbo,” Ardyn said. “But it won’t be long now. I have the feeling things will get exciting very soon.”

He hooked his arm around Ignis’ waist, pulling him close, demanding a kiss. Ignis could feel his teeth in it. Without freeing his mouth, he took hold of Ignis’ thigh, urging him to swing it over so he was kneeling astride Ardyn’s lap. Heavy fabric chafed against the insides of his thighs.

“What should I do?” Ignis said.

“Ride it,” Ardyn said against his lips. “You’ve finally accepted that you want this. Why don’t you show me how much.”

Ignis clenched his fists so hard that his nails bit into his palms. That pitiful pain did little to divert him from the distracting sensation of Ardyn’s trousers rubbing against his most sensitive parts. “I don’t know how.”

“I’m sure a clever little harlot like you will soon figure it out.”

Ardyn freed his cock, running the tip along the sensitive seam of skin between Ignis’ thighs. When he reached the cleft between his buttocks, he paused, letting it press up against his entrance.

Ignis shuddered, feeling himself relax in anticipation. It was some foul sorcery that Ardyn had worked on him which caused his body to react as it did; that was what he had to believe. Ardyn’s hands came to rest on his hips. It took little urging for Ignis to settle back on his heels, taking him in.

He gasped as he was penetrated, but there was little pain anymore. Ardyn tightened his hold on Ignis’ waist, showing him how to move. He only needed guidance for a moment, before his hips began to pump on their own. Ardyn’s cock shifted inside him as he worked himself on it. Now that he could set the angle, and he soon found one that allowed Ardyn’s cock to strike the small knot of pleasure inside him with each stroke.

With grim and fatalistic determination, Ignis worked himself to the verge of orgasm. As he edged closer, Ardyn pressed his lips against the exposed column of Ignis’ throat, his stubble scraping against the skin.

“There’s something I forgot to mention,” Ardyn said. “Dear Prince Noctis is in the city. He’s come at last.”

Ignis gasped at the name. His body tensed around the organ inside him, sending a shock of pain through him. When he tried to pull away, Ardyn’s hands tightened savagely on his waist, holding him down.

“It’s too late, my boy. For you, and for him. I thought I might torture you in advance of his arrival, hang a pitiful corpse above the wall for him to find. But it seems I’m not quite ready to give you up. I have a better idea, though. I’ll simply show him what you have been up to in his absence. That would certainly provide the necessary shock.”

Ignis fought him in earnest this time, shoving at Ardyn’s shoulders, trying to wrench away from the invading cock between his thighs. Ardyn was ready for him, though. He caught Ignis around the wrists, and, with an uncanny and terrifying strength, lifted him up and forced him onto his back. He pinned him there, helpless, while he continued to fuck him.

“Monster,” Ignis hissed. “It was always about Noctis, wasn’t it?”

“It was in the beginning,” Ardyn conceded. “But I grew to appreciate you.”

Ignis moaned in protest, jerking his head to the side in a wordless denial.

“Quiet,” Ardyn said. “You know it to be true, and you ought to start acting grateful. Who were you before me? A little slave, no one from nowhere. I made you a part of history.”

“You’re insane,” Ignis spat. “Raped by some petty chancellor with delusions of grandeur? That is history to you?”

“No,” Ardyn said. “Consort to the true king is, though.”

“You pathetic madman,” Ignis said. “Did you think I could ever feel anything for you? Any affection you thought I showed you was as false as your claim to the throne.”

Ardyn landed a backhanded slap across his face on the last word. Though he had probably pulled it some, it still caused Ignis’ head to snap to the side. His nose and mouth exploded in blood, spattering the sheets, filling his throat almost instantly. It was then that Ardyn came inside him.

“So, the little slave finds his tongue, just in time to have it torn out.”

He pulled out roughly, then he grabbed the length of chain from the headboard and looped it through Ignis’ collar leaving a short lead, barely enough to push onto his knees.

“Another few weeks in the dungeon might give you some perspective on the situation.”

Ignis’s hands were clamped over his bleeding nose. He removed one long enough to take a swing at Ardyn, who had already moved out of reach.

“I suppose there are still some human troops around,” Ardyn said. “Surly fellows, very upset that they’ve been replaced by machines. I’ll give you to them for a while, see if it cheers them up. Whatever the case, I’m sure you’ll be glad to see me afterwards.”

“Do it, then,” Ignis snapped. “Just cease this endless talking.”

“All in good time,” Ardyn told him. “First, I have to deal with some pressing business.”

He was gone then, and Ignis was left alone to tug at his chains. They only rattled ineffectually, but Ignis fought with them for a long time. It was better than doing nothing.

Presently, he heard the door open again. Ignis whipped around to face it, eyes blazing. He could only assume it was Ardyn, returned to volley some parthian shot at him. But the footsteps that entered the room were sharp and martial, not at all like Ardyn’s gliding, near-silent tread. There was a faint smell of rain, not earth.

“Who's there?” Ignis said. His hands curled into fists. If Ardyn had sent soldiers as he had said he would, he would make sure they had a difficult time of it.

“At last, that buffoon is gone,” replied a voice that Ignis recognized but was slow to place. “I’ve brought you clothes. Get dressed.”

“General Ravus?” Ignis did not believe it himself. “What are you doing here?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Ravus said shortly. Ignis felt the bed depress slightly as Ravus planted a knee on it. He flinched away, and was immediately embarrassed when he felt Ravus’ hands go to work at the collar around his neck.

“It’s really you.” Ignis swallowed hard. “I am ashamed that you've found me this way.”

“Someone has to get you out of here,” Ravus replied shortly. Though Ignis couldn’t see him, he knew that Ravus was not looking at him. “Do you object to it being me?”

“No. I’m glad.” Ravus unlocked the collar and slipped it off. Ignis’ hand flew to his bruised throat as if to shield it. “Those things he did… I didn’t want…”

“No, you didn’t,” Ravus said.

To have it affirmed like that, so simply and with such conviction, made tears come to Ignis’ eyes. He blinked them back as he fumbled with the clothing Ravus had brought him.

“I’m glad you’re all right, my lord.”

“I’m alive,” Ravus said. He grabbed Ignis’ arm abruptly, forcing it into a trailing sleeve. “Hurry. Time is short.”

“I’m sorry,” Ignis whispered, lowering his head so that Ravus wouldn’t see him cry.

“Don’t,” Ravus said, buttoning Ignis’ shirt with steady hands. “You were loyal, with a head full of stupid notions, and you got caught up in this. It’s probably too late now, but I’ll take you back to your prince.”

“He can’t know.”

“He won’t,” Ravus replied. He took Ignis’ arm, coaxing him to stand up. “We will both take this secret to our graves.”

“I thank you,” Ignis said. 

His legs nearly buckled when he first tested his weight on them; the muscles were stiff from disuse. Ravus caught his waist in an iron grip. “Can’t you walk?”

“Yes,” Ignis replied, getting his bearings. “But my eyes…”

“I will lead you,” Ravus said.

“And then you will fight alongside us. I know you will do what is right.”

“I will do what is necessary,” Ravus said. He took Ignis’ arm in a steely hold that allowed no room for disagreement. Ignis swallowed against the knot in his throat and followed him.

The halls of the Keep were empty and silent; Ignis could tell by the way his steps echoed that it was a place of high ceilings and cavernous spaces. He was grateful for Ravus’ resolute hand on his arm.

“Where is everyone?” Ignis said.

“Dead,” Ravus replied. “All dead, or taken by the darkness. This place belongs to demons now.”

Ignis shuddered. “Noctis will set all to right.”

“As you say,” Ravus replied grimly. All at once, his steady steps faltered and he stumbled. He fell awkwardly, pulling Ignis off balance as he went down.

“Ravus!” Ignis recovered, and then dropped to his knees next to the man. “What is it? Are you hurt?”

Ignis had thought he was beginning to become acclimated to his blindness, that his other senses had learned how to compensate for his lost sight. But when Ravus collapsed, he was struck with terror, the same as the terror he had felt when he had first known that his vision would not return. His hands found Ravus’ shoulders - sturdy flesh and bone on one side and lightweight metal on the other - searching for wounds. It would be just like Ravus to hide something like that, to think it made him stoic and tragic.

“Where is it?” Ignis said. He could not smell blood, but he could hear Ravus’ agonized breathing, feel how hard the muscles in his chest were braced against pain. “What’s wrong?”

“Unhand me, boy.” Ravus shoved him back. “Damn you, I don’t need you fawning over me.”

Ignis fell back. He could feel it now: the dark taint in the air. It was all around them, settling on his skin, as tangible as ash. A cold knot formed in his stomach, Ardyn’s poison stirring and coiling like something alive. Ignis could feel it calling, calling. Yearning towards its likeness.

The horrible truth of it was clear to him now. Unfair, so unfair, that Ravus, who had endured so much, more than any of them, would suffer such an ignoble fate. 

“My lord,” Ignis said quietly. He reached for Ravus’ face, meaning to take it between his hands. Ravus turned away from him, but he had not been fast enough; Ignis’ fingers brushed against his cheeks for an instant, long enough to feel that the skin there was covered in a patina of smooth scales.

“It is inside you,” Ignis said quietly. “He has tainted you too.”

“Not him,” Ravus said, too quickly. He may have had pity for Ignis’ situation, but he did not want anyone to think, even for a moment, that they were the same. “This place, perhaps. My resolve was weak.”

“You must fight,” Ignis said. “It is a wicked place, but once you leave it--”

“No,” Ravus said. “I’m not leaving. It won’t let me.”

A convulsion of pain went through him. Ravus braced himself against it and did not cry out.

“You must go,” he continued. His voice sounded rough, metallic. It was changing; he was changing. The scourge was bleeding him dry like a mortal wound. “It will take me. There’s nothing anyone can do. Perhaps you can still get away. Have faith; find your prince.”

“I cannot,” Ignis whispered. He reached out tentatively, but this time Ravus did not push him away. Ignis fumbled a hand up his right arm; there were hard ridges of bone at the joints, emerging from Ravus’ flesh. “I would rather die here then wander these halls alone. Until Ardyn finds me again, or something worse.”

He didn’t know what could be worse than Ardyn, but he knew better now than to underestimate the depths of depravity in this place. At least Ardyn had been gentle sometimes, had almost seemed grateful, as if Ignis alone was a balm on some deep pain inside him. As if his touch drew out the darkness.

All at once, Ignis realized what he had to do. His hand flew to his lips, pressing against them as he struggled with a sudden wave of nausea. He did not know how he would be able to go through with it, and yet he knew that he must. Through pain and terror and humiliation, Ardyn had shown him his true duty, and now Ignis knew that he must perform it, for Ravus’ sake, without hesitation or question.

“Give it to me,” Ignis said. He could not see Ravus’ eyes, but he knew that they were locked on his face. “Your darkness, your poison. I can take this burden from you.”

Before he lost his nerve, he found Ravus’ lips with his fingers and then he leaned in to press his mouth against them. It was not a proper kiss, but Ignis felt his lips begin to tingle and numb. A breath of cold air traveled down his throat, and Ignis took it in without struggle or complaint.

“What did you do?” Ravus whispered. He brushed his hand over Ignis’ face, tracing his icy lips. “How did you--?”

“Don’t ask me that,” Ignis said, cutting him off. “You must not ask such things.”

He kissed Ravus again before he could protest. When he caught the man’s face between his hands he could feel the patches of scales on his cheek, trailing back towards his temple, giving way at times to more of those sharp spurs of bone. Ignis plunged his fingers further back, tangling them in Ravus’ hair. That, at least, was untouched, and so Ignis clung to it. He forced himself to think of its color: silvery white. Of the way it was always unkempt, as if Ravus had just come from some untouched, windblown, wild place.

Ignis willed himself to forget Ardyn, to push that shame aside. Whatever he might have endured, Ravus needed him now. The man had not always been kind, but he didn’t deserve this.

He urged Ravus to part his lips and allow him to slip his tongue past them. It seemed that could taste the film of darkness coating the inside of his mouth, and he lapped it up. Then he pulled back a little, sucking at Ravus’ lips. He kept their foreheads pressed together, kept his hands threaded in Ravus’ hair so that the strands wove over and under his fingers.

“Can you stand?” he asked. “Or do you need more?”

“Don’t do this,” Ravus said against his aching lips. “You mustn’t.”

“It’s already done.”

Swallowing hard, he reached for the front of Ravus’ trousers, cupping the bulge there. It was sizable and heavy, but not so obscenely huge as Ardyn’s had been. When he opened his clothing and freed it, he found it long and delicately tapered. The shaft was narrow but firm, smooth like a crystal spire.

Ignis bent his head. He had to go down on hands and knees to reach Ravus’ cock, but once he had, Ravus slid his knees further apart and set a callused palm on the back of his neck, not to force him but to stroke him in encouragement. 

He was not quite stiff yet; Ignis had to coax him with his tongue, running it over the head, working it into the slit there and sliding it under the hood of skin that covered it. Ravus hardened in his grip, his cock pushing up and into Ignis’ mouth. Ignis parted his lips and took him in. His throat opened to let it slide in deep. He knew this by now.

“God…” Ravus gasped. His voice was obscured; he had clamped his hand over his mouth to muffle a choked moan.

Ignis was glad he did not have to speak, was glad that he did not have to raise his eyes. Even if he could not see Ravus’ face, he felt that he would know at once the horrified expression in his eyes.

He came all at once, a hot pulse inside Ignis’ throat. The liquid that flooded his mouth was warm, with a hint of salt to it. It was so unlike what Ignis had come to expect with Ardyn that he nearly sobbed with relief. He kept his head down until Ravus was finished, and then he wiped his lips on the back of his hand and straightened up.

“Ravus?” he said softly. He reached out with a tentative hand and stroked the backs of his fingers over Ravus’ cheek. He could still feel scaly patches on his skin, but they had, perhaps, receded minutely. “How are you?”

“The pain is gone,” Ravus replied. “I can get up.”

He climbed to his feet, taking Ignis’ arm in his hand so they rose together. “You are a marvel. I won’t ask what you did. I won’t ask how.”

“Take me to Prince Noctis,” Ignis said quietly. “I need to be with him now.”


	10. Chapter 10

Three years after Noctis left them so he could commune with the gods, the sun set for the final time. As recently as a few months previous, there had still been a glimmer of twilight in the sky at midday, and there had been some talk among the Hunters that the sun would show itself again for a few minutes during the summer solstice. Ignis didn’t know how many people held their breath and watched the skies. He had been in the dark longer than any of them, and he no longer held out much hope for anything else. 

Noctis would return to them one day. Ignis knew that, waited for it, and yet he did not long for it. To him, it was as inevitable as breathing, an automatic function performed by the universe to regulate itself.

His duty until that time was to wait. Waiting meant surviving, and surviving meant fighting. There was always something to kill. Frame it as they might in terms of preserving what was left of the prince’s kingdom for when he returned, Ignis rarely thought of it like that. For him, the long purgatory was measured by demons slain. Things heavy of tread and hot of breath that had been born in the darkness.

That was fine with him; he was of the darkness too.

There were times when his contracts with the Hunters took him to the mountains, near the old Temple of Shiva. It was in the furthest reaches of the realm, sparsely inhabited even in peaceful times. Now it was home to only a few settlements, clustered around bonfires that burned continually to keep the demons at bay.

And in the hills above, something else dwelt in this forgotten place at the end of the world.

When his business for the Hunters was through, Ignis ascended the narrow game trails. He knew the way by now, and he went into the mountains without hesitation or fear. The temperature dropped quickly as he climbed; fifty meters more and there would have been snow on the ground all year. 

Just below the glacier, an old hunter’s cabin was tucked in between the rocks. Each time he came here, he expected to find it empty, uninhabited, with only a heap of broken furniture and the faint smell of earth after a long, hard rain to indicate that anyone had passed this way.

It was inevitable, but not yet. As soon as Ignis laid his hand against the familiar rough-hewn wooden door, he felt something building on the other side. No, it could only have been his imagination; and yet when he pushed the door open, almost before his foot could pass the threshold, an iron grip closed around his arm.

Ignis did not make a sound as he was pulled inside, turned roughly so that his shoulder blades struck the wall, his head snapping back to crack against the wood. He saw stars, but felt little pain from the ungentle treatment and none at all from the taloned fingertips digging into his arm.

He reached up with both hands, cupping them around a familiar jawline, studded with spurs of polished bone. Silvery hair cascaded over his fingers, and Ignis grabbed it, dragging Ravus down into a kiss.

Sharp teeth cut into his lips. Ravus pressed closer, so that Ignis could feel the muscles in his thighs and abdomen moving, sinuous and coiling, like caged serpents. “You were gone a long time.”

“Does it hurt?” Ignis murmured. He ran his fingertips over Ravus’ brow. Most of the right side of his face was still whole, untainted by the scourge that coursed through him, but the left side had been ravaged by mutation. His eyebrow had long since been replaced by a row of bony protrusions; his eye was pushed out of shape, elongated and slanted, bare of lashes but with a leathery, translucent membrane that blinked over it from time to time.

Before Ignis could explore the damage more, Ravus grabbed his wrist and pulled his hand away. “Nothing hurts.”

Ignis caught his breath. “No, nothing.”

Ravus spun him around, pushing him up against the wall. Ignis’ fingers curled against the rough wood, and he felt splinters slide beneath his nails. Ravus’ hand went around his hip, slipping inside the torn fabric to probe a fresh cut. It was just a graze, and it had nearly stopped bleeding, but as Ravus worked it with his fingers it began to throb like a bruise.

“Take it,” Ignis whispered, pressing his forehead against the wall. “Whatever you need, my lord.”

Ravus slipped his hand out of Ignis’ torn clothes so he could unbuckle his belt. Ignis spread his legs, bracing his feet as Ravus let his trousers down. A moment later he felt Ravus’ cock pressing against his buttocks, sliding up the cleft. That organ, at least, had not yet been touched by the dark poison working itself slowly, implacably through Ravus’ system. His elegant manhood had retained its delicate shape. Narrow and tapered, but with strength behind it.

Ignis took a deep breath, making himself relax. It was necessary, he reminded himself. Ravus would have been taken by the darkness a long time ago if Ignis did not make these periodic visits to him. He had taken it upon himself, just another duty in a long line of services he had rendered.

He did not resent it, nor did he shrink from it. It was enough that Ravus needed him, needed his body.

Ravus angled his hips and thrust in. Ignis gritted his teeth and did not make a sound. He felt Ravus moving inside him with slow and steady strokes. Gentle as ever, more gentle by half than he needed to be, for Ignis had not been exaggerating when he said that very little hurt him anymore.

“You are magnificent,” Ravus breathed. His lips fumbled over Ignis’ throat until they found his ear. He sucked lightly on the lobe, nipping it with pointed teeth.

“You’re touched, my lord,” Ignis said to the wall. “It is the darkness that makes you say such things.”

“Whenever I am at my most honest, you disbelieve me.” Ravus sighed, breathing over Ignis’ damp skin. “I suppose I deserve it; I have dealt in deception for too long.”

Ignis squeezed his eyes shut. They burned with unshed tears. “Please, just do what is necessary. Do what you must.”

Ravus’ hips had already begun to work, thrusting up into him hard, so that Ignis had to stand on his toes to accommodate him. It could have been so good, in another world, another lifetime. But this was the world they had to live in, and Ignis refused to give himself over to passion. He was damaged goods, a fact Ravus knew well. He had never mentioned Ardyn, but Ignis knew he had not forgotten, not for a moment.

No, better that he approach this as a required function. Better that Ravus use him without thought or feeling, as if he were merely an aid for lackluster but necessary masturbation.

Ravus’ breath caught as he came. Ignis tensed up as he felt it fill him; his stomach clenched and turned over. Another dose of darkness: his body drank it in as if it were nothing. He did not think the scourge was transferred by the fluids of the body; it was something about the violation inherent in the act, the intimacy of it.

He pressed his forehead against the wall and caught his breath. To his surprise, Ravus’ hands closed around his waist, turning him around. Ignis glanced away, as if to escape a gaze he could not see. He was certain it was burning.

“I’ve hurt you,” Ravus said. He tipped Ignis’ chin up and kissed his unresponsive lips.

“No,” Ignis replied. “I told you…”

“You told me that nothing hurts. And this I know is not true, or else you would no longer be human at all.” He kissed him again, and this time Ignis could not keep his lips from stirring in response. “I’m sorry. I tried. But you are the only thing that helps. I don’t want to die like this.”

Ignis sighed. “I know. Don’t worry about these things that you do to me, my lord. Until the end, I am all for you.”

Ravus bent a little, hooking one arm behind Ignis’ knees and the other behind his back, sweeping him off his feet as if he weighed nothing. 

Ignis gasped, his hands going to Ravus’ shoulders, but not quite managing to push him away. “What are you doing?”

“You have traveled long, fought hard,” Ravus replied. “I can see that my company is a heavy burden to bear, but you can certainly rest for a moment before you go back out there.”

He set Ignis gallantly on the cabin’s small bed. The mattress was stuffed with fresh, sweet-smelling straw, and there was a clean quilt spread over it. Bewildered, Ignis raised himself on his elbows, reaching out one hand towards Ravus. “You are not a burden, my lord. The burden has been thrust upon both of us.”

Ravus took his hand, lifting it so he could rub it against the soft skin on the unblemished side of his face.

“I remember Tenebrae,” Ignis ventured. “Those things you said to me.”

“A serious young man, with the saddest eyes. A diamond amidst cut glass.” Ravus kissed the back of his hand. “I meant them.”

“You didn’t know me. You just said the first thing that popped into your head. I don’t know who you were trying to impress.”

“You were the only one there,” Ravus said. “And so I hope you were suitably impressed.”

Ignis was certain he was making a mistake, but he gave Ravus’ hand a tug, pulling him down on the bed. Ravus stretched out beside him. It was a close fit, but he was careful that they did not touch unnecessarily.

“I was terrified,” Ignis said. “Alone in a strange land. I didn’t belong there, and I felt so sure that everyone must know. You, most of all.”

“You say that as if I ever belonged in that stifling place.”

“I know that you did not. You got away, though. First to the outlands, and then into the arms of the Empire. I despised you for shirking your duty, but I envied you in the same instant. I remember thinking that there must be somewhere out there that I would not be consumed by that awful fear, that I was an impostor in my own life. That my destiny was wielded by the hand of another.”

“There is no such place,” Ravus said. “Not for us. Your prince, my sister, they were always at home in every world. Just as you and I will never be at home in any.”

Ignis felt his throat tighten; tears came to his eyes. “Why must you say such things now?”

“Because I don’t know how much longer we are going to have together.”

“Until the king returns from his long journey,” Ignis said, steel coming into his voice.

“It might be a lustrum, a decade, a century. He may not come at all.”

Ignis had begun to feel comfortable where he was, had even begun to relax a little, but now he sat bolt upright. “You never believed in him,” he said sharply.

“What do you want me to say?” Ravus replied. “May he return for you, and soon. But he does not return for me.”

“That’s not true. He will set all to right, Ravus. He’ll know what to do about what has befallen you.”

Ignis believed that, had to believe it, and to prove it to himself he reached for Ravus’ face, running his fingers along the mottled scaly patches.

“Don’t,” Ravus said, pulling away. “Remember me as I was on that day in Tenebrae. Be glad you cannot see the monster I have become.”

Ignis withdrew his hand; slowly, so it would not look as if he were chastened. “I am glad my sight does not inconvenience you, my lord,” he said stiffly.

Ravus sighed. “You know that I don’t mean that.”

He reached for Ignis’ hand, but Ignis pulled away. He got out of bed, straightening his clothes and hair with a fastidious touch. “I’m going,” he said. “I will come to you again next time I have a contract in the area.”

“Don’t leave like this,” Ravus said. He reached for him again, but, sighted or not, Ignis had become good at eluding. “I hate the thought that I am sending you back out there with more regrets.”

“Be well, my lord,” Ignis said. “Until I return.”

“You make me feel as if I have only used you. It shouldn’t be this way.”

“Then change it,” Ignis replied. “Next time I come, don’t press yourself on me.”

Ravus was silent, though Ignis waited what seemed a long time for him to say something. “You will not,” he concluded at last. “Nor should you. It would be terrible folly to die for something like that.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valia gets his medical knowledge from the Edwin Smith Papyrus (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edwin_Smith_Papyrus) , which gets a shout out because it's one of my favorite historical artifacts.

Sometimes when he dreamed, Ignis could still see. Though this had become less frequent as time when on, as his brain forgot how to process visual stimuli, once in a while things still came through bright and clear.

It was some time after he had left Ravus behind in the mountains. There was no sense measuring by days anymore, but Ignis knew that he had bedded down two or three times. Even that was not a perfect indication of how much time had passed. When he was out in the wilderness, he slept at odd hours, whenever it seemed safe to close his eyes. 

This fractured and ever-alert sleep was almost never deep enough for dreams, but this time, almost as soon as he shut his eyes, Ignis was somewhere else.

It was a dream of uncommon detail, uncommon vividness. The colors were supersaturated, the textures deep and perfectly defined. It was as if he had been lifted out of his life and transported into another, one that was somehow more real than that which he lived.

In his mind, he moved like a spirit through the halls of a castle keep. The walls were hung with intricate tapestries depicting armies clashing in battle, and the floors were strewn with heavy carpets in dozens of different patterns. A few were eaten away by burns, and some had dark stains on them that could only have been blood. They must have been looted from different villages, different peoples. Brought back here and thrown down haphazardly to keep out the biting chill of the stones.

All of this Ignis noticed dispassionately. It was a mere curiosity to him, as he moved swiftly and unhesitantly towards the heart of the keep.

He passed through a heavy oaken door. The room on the other side had only a few small windows located high on the walls. They let in a little light, but it was impossible to see out of them.

The place might have been a cell, though a lavishly furnished one. The bed was hung with silk curtains; the dressing table piled high with golden bottles of perfume and cosmetics; a pair of wooden trunks overflowed with delicately embroidered clothing. Three laden bookcases stretched from the floor to the ceiling, piled high with manuscripts, scrolls, rough-bound parchments, all of which looked well-thumbed and annotated.

Not a cell, Ignis realized. At least not one meant to keep a prisoner inside. This place had been made to keep the world out.

The sole occupant was a young man, thin and fair-haired. He was dressed beautifully, in layers of silk and furs. As he moved about the room, lighting the ensconced candles, Ignis could see his face.

He was taken aback; this boy could have been his twin. He was half a head shorter, and his nose was slightly flattened where Ignis’ was straight, as if it had been broken at some point and healed badly. Small things, which did nothing to detract from the unsettling sensation that he was looking into a living mirror.

Ignis no longer felt that he was dreaming, but that he was being shown something true, something he must understand.

Before he could make sense of it, the heavy door swung open before a man in black armor, carrying a plumed helmet under his arm. It was with a strange lack of fear or disgust that Ignis realized it was Ardyn: considerably younger than the last time Ignis had seen him, corded with leaner muscle, with a wild and unpredictable look in his eye that was somehow less concerning than his habitual expression of knowing patience. 

Before Ignis could decide what to make of it, the young man had rushed forward.

“My lord!” He came to a halt, standing straight, his hip cocked and neck arched. His hands passed over the front of his colored robes, fanning them out for Ardyn’s inspection. He managed to maintain a serious expression for all of a second before his face relaxed into the familiar lines of a smile.

Ardyn’s expression softened minutely as well. 

“Ridiculous boy,” he said with a harshness that was not quite genuine. “Stop showing off and help me with my armor.”

Valia took the plumed helmet and set it on an armor rack. He returned for Ardyn’s shield, and then for his manica. Ardyn held himself stiff and still during the procedure. He seemed pale, paler than Ignis remembered, and his eyes were shadowed. Valia came back for his breastplate, and Ardyn shifted his stance, bracing himself as Valia began to tug at the stiff leather straps.

As gush of blood spat from the loosened armor. It spilled over Valia’s hands, staining the cuffs of his robe. To the boy’s credit, he did not pull away.

“Ardyn,” Valia gasped. “What has happened? What have they done?”

“A touch,” Ardyn said. “It’s nothing.”

He pushed Valia’s hands aside and shrugged out of the heavy breastplate, setting it aside on the armor rack. Without it, Ardyn seemed to lose equilibrium. His back would not straighten, and he gripped the edge of the rack to keep himself on his feet.

The wound was still fresh; the drops of blood that spattered on the stone floor proved as much.

Valia pushed back his trailing sleeves and came forward to take Ardyn’s arm. “Why didn’t you call the healer?”

“I wanted to see you,” Ardyn said. He tried to pull away, but didn’t make it far. His legs folded under him and he collapsed to one knee. Valia, unhesitating, followed him down. His delicate hand found the gash in Ardyn’s side and pressed down on it hard.

Ardyn hissed in pain, but set his own hand over Valia’s, helping him put pressure. His eyes were fixed on the floor, but all at once he raised them. His gaze was unfocused, unseeing, until it settled on Ignis. Then it sharpened, as if Ardyn had seen him. His lips parted, seemingly poised to speak.

Before he could say anything, he collapsed, hitting the stone floor with a hollow thud. Valia cried out as he lost his hold. The sound followed him down, down into darkness. And it buoyed Ignis up into the same. 

He lost the thread, but not the dream. Though he could no longer see it, he knew he was still in that secret room within the castle.

“You let the surgeon in while I was incapacitate?” said a voice in the darkness. “I’m lucky he didn’t butcher me, the quack.”

“I tended to you myself,” Valia replied softly. “So you would not be displeased.”

His voice sounded strange, choked. He had been crying. “The physician Lysander recommends honey as an antiseptic, salyx for the pain. A poultice of sycamore leaves and garden’s tongue. There were incantations, too. I don’t know if they help, but I said them.”

The darkness that surrounded him pulled back like a shroud, like a curtain rising on the spectacle of someone else’s life. 

Ardyn was stretched out on that luxurious bed. He had already raised himself on his elbows, as if wary of such a soft embrace. Valia was beside him, not touching him at all. His hands were knotted into fists, tucked inside the diaphanous folds of his robes, stained now with a good deal of drying blood.

Ardyn regarded the boy’s face in silence for a moment, then he looked away. His steely brow contracted, as if in pain.

“Did you stitch it too?” His fingers probed his bandaged side. “You have a steady hand.”

“I was trembling,” Valia confided.

“You did well for your first try,” Ardyn said. He pushed himself fully upright, resting his back against the headboard. “And you see, I’m none the worse for a little hard handling.”

He reached for Valia’s face, but the boy pulled away from him, not quickly enough to hide his tears. “You said it was a diplomatic visit, and yet you return to me like this. What am I to think, my lord? What am I to do?”

“Diplomacy failed us,” Ardyn replied easily. “Negotiations broke down, but my blade spoke with eloquence. You should have seen it. If you had, you wouldn’t be crying over a little blood. I’ve had much worse, you know.”

“Stop!” Valia nearly shouted. Ardyn shrunk away from him when he raised his voice, drawing his hand back quickly as if he had been stung.

“Ten years gone by, and you still speak of blood and blades,” Valia continued. “All for what? Do you think that it impresses me? Do you think I adore you because you still swagger about and bluster like a warlord bragging to his slave? I may be your slave, Ardyn, but you are no longer a warlord. You are the prince of this land.”

“And I shall be prince as I am,” Ardyn told him. His voice was defiant, his chin possessed of an arrogant tilt, and yet he seemed somehow chastened, somehow quieted, by Valia’s upbraiding. “Not as you or anyone else wishes I was.”

“You have a duty. To your father’s legacy, to this land.”

“My father is dead,” Ardyn replied. “And this land exists only because I paid for it with the blood that you claim to detest.”

“Then what of your duty to me?” Valia said. He reached out suddenly and snatched Ardyn’s hand up, holding it so tightly that his knuckles showed white from the strain. “My star is tied to yours, my lord. If you die, what do you think becomes of me? Another master, if I am lucky. Or something worse. When the door to the bedchamber closes, very few men are like you.”

“So that’s the problem.” Ardyn turned his hand in Valia’s, lacing their fingers together so he could draw the young man close. “After all I have seen and done, I’m not as easy to kill as you seem to think.”

He lifted Valia’s hand to his lips, brushing a kiss over his knuckle. “If that is what you fear, then I shall just have to outlive you. I shall bury you in state, my little hawk. At the end of a long and full life, in a tomb fit for a dynasty of kings. They will remember your name.”

Valia raised his eyes, a smile coming hesitantly to his lips. “Then I shall wait for you on the shore of the Dark Waters. We will cross over together. Two shades, alike in forgetting. But I could not forget you.”

“I’ve been told I can be very memorable,” Ardyn replied. He brushed his thumb over Valia’s cheeks, wiping away his tears. “I’ll be good and rest. But you must go to my travelling cloak. There’s a package sewn inside the lining. Bring it here to me.”

“Yes, my lord.” Valia sprang to his feet and rushed to the corner, where the cloak had been thrown hastily over a divan. He dug through its voluminous folds until he found what Ardyn wanted. It was a small bundle of burlap, folded over and over, and secured with a leather cord.

Once Valia had handed it over, Ardyn unwrapped the package deftly and shook free a ring of burnished gold. The delicate filigree band was inlaid with black glass and crowned with a blood red stone, as big the iris of an eye, clear and flawless as glass.

He slipped it onto Valia’s hand. It fit his delicate finger perfectly.

“What is this?” Valia breathed, taken aback. He lifted his hand slowly, carefully, to watch the stone catch the light.

“The Fire of Ifrit,” Ardyn told him. “To protect you.”

“I shall wear it always,” Valia said. He bent for a kiss, but when their lips met it was with the sound of static. Already the colors were fading, the details becoming less distinct, passing from vision to dream, and then to the blackness of waking life.

Ignis snapped awake, breathing hard. His daggers were already in his hands, and he brought them to bear against a non-existent threat. He was alone, though there was the faint sound of something out there in the darkness, moving swiftly away.

It had been a dream from the Horned Gates; a true dream not of what was to come but, somehow, of something that had already happened. Ignis had not the slightest idea why it had been shown to him, or what to make of the boy who bore his face, like looking into a bright mirror. But he was, for the first time in a long time, aware that Ardyn was still out there somewhere, that the many black threads connecting them had not yet been severed.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, holiday break is over which means that I'm going back to work tomorrow. I'll keep the daily updates coming for as long as I can, but know that they may slow down a bit in the near future. I have a plan for this fic and am pretty committed to finishing it up soon, so hopefully you'll all be sticking with me. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who reviewed, especially those of you who left comments on multiple chapters. It's really encouraging to get them.

The years passed. In darkness, it was hard to keep track of time, though there were some who still tried, by means of a fading circadian rhythm or the careful tending and daily winding of watches and clocks. The digital ones had given up running on anything resembling a proper schedule a long time ago, and even the most reliable analogue mechanism was by now prone to jumping ahead or lagging behind if not watched closely.

Seven years, that was the figure Ignis heard most often. More than half a decade of darkness, and still life went on, somehow. There had been a rash of deaths due to the demons, then a second wave of suicides. Both had tapered off, though. Anyone left had learned to adapt. The boom of children conceived during the Final Twilight were old enough now to doubt that there had ever been anything besides this.

They were old enough to fight, as well. Ignis was not overly troubled by the notion of children training with weapons. After all, he had been given a set of daggers almost as soon as he was old enough to hold them. Back then, young men were expected to learn to fight for sport, not for war, but perhaps that had just been the polite fiction they had all told themselves, one of the many glosses they had put upon the world in order to make it more palatable.

Ignis had few such deceptions left, though he supposed he still clung to one or two. There was no other reason he could conceive of that he would be here again, far to the north, where only demons dwelt.

Ravus had long since decamped from the cabin in the mountains. As the northern towns had been abandoned, what was left of their citizens fleeing to the overcrowded refugee camps of Lestallum, Ravus had felt emboldened to move closer to civilization. For the moment, he lived in the ghost town of Brumalis, tending the fires in the watchtowers that kept the demons at bay.

The monsters that had ravaged the land did not bother him, and in fact, he had confided in Ignis once, the light sometimes burned his eyes even through walls. It seemed that just the knowledge that it was there was enough to enrage the demon he caged carefully inside himself.

Still, he kept the fire burning, since that was what men did. Ignis was not overly impressed by his determination. It seemed to him that there was enough pain already in circulation without forcing more upon himself.

Ignis could not pass judgement on that account. He was the one who kept coming back, who spent a single hour in Ravus’ arms, giving him what he could and taking what he had to, followed by many hours alone denying that it had meant anything to him. At least it was something to look forward to, something to break up the monotony. Noctis might return at any moment, and when he did Ignis would have to be ready. He could not give into this horrible sensory deprivation, could not surrender to the terrors of this dark world.

That was how he found himself here again, flat on his back with Ravus coiled above him, braced on his hands so that his weight barely rested on Ignis’ body. He was inside him, moving with a practiced ease that only came from being familiar with the body of another.

Ignis pressed the heel of his hand to his mouth to muffle a cry, biting down hard on the fleshy pad under his thumb. Ravus took him gently by the wrist and moved his hand away.

“Who do you think will overhear?”

“Forgive me if I don’t want to draw every beast for miles around,” Ignis said through a set and steely jaw.

“I would protect you,” Ravus said. It seemed that he meant it as a joke, ironically, but his voice was serious. “From anything.”

He bent and kissed Ignis’ stubbornly unresponsive lips. His hair fell forward, brushing over Ignis’ face. It smelled faintly of ozone, like the air after a lightning strike. 

“More,” Ignis gasped. “Harder, I beg you.”

Ravus did not move for a long moment. Ignis knew that his eyes were on his face, watching it closely for any minute shift of muscles that might betray what he was feeling, but Ignis’ expression was blank, neutral, accepting. Ravus hooked his metal arm beneath Ignis’ thigh, bending his leg up so that his knee rested against his chest. With his hips tilted back, Ravus was free to thrust in deeper, burying himself all the way to the hilt.

Ignis cried out; feeling as if the sound had been wrenched from his throat. Ravus just kissed him, though he kept Ignis’ leg pinned mercilessly back, and his hips kept moving, moving, until flowers of light bloomed behind Ignis’ eyes, and for a second he saw as if in the full light of day.

After he had caught his breath, Ravus rolled off him and dropped, heavy, to the mattress. Ignis turned onto his side and felt down by the side of the bed for his discarded clothes.

“Wait.” Ravus looped an arm around his waist, drawing him back. “Stay a while.”

“And do what?”

“Talk, perhaps?” Ravus said. “How long has it been since you spoke aloud? Your voice is hoarse from disuse.”

“There’s nothing to say,” Ignis replied shortly. He did not think there was anything wrong with his voice. “All is the same as last time I was here, and the time before. I prefer to save my breath.”

“You climaxed this time,” Ravus observed. “That is something new.”

Ignis passed the back of his hand over his eyes, chasing away tears before they had time to gather. “I have climaxed for you before. You are forgetting, my lord.”

“Not often,” Ravus said. “And not for lack of trying on my part, if I do say so. Do you think about Ardyn when you’re with me?”

Ignis sat bolt upright at the name. His heart pounded against his ribs, and the inside of his mouth seemed suddenly coated in a foul, coppery taste. “Of course not. I know who you are.”

He felt the floor again until at last he found his trousers. As he began to pull them on, he added, “You ought not ask things to which you do not want to know the answers.”

Ravus sighed, sitting up as well. He seemed to be rallying himself, like a general concentrating his forces for another assault in a long siege. His hands came to rest on Ignis’ shoulders, one sculpted of flesh and the other of metal, though both equal in gentleness as they explored Ignis’ hollow clavicles and the knots of vertebrae in his slender back.

“You look the same,” he said. “All this time gone, and you still look the same. It is as if you have been preserved in amber.”

“That’s not true.”

“Things could have been different, Ignis.”

Ignis pulled away, standing up. He finished sorting out the tangle of fabric from the floor and shrugged into his shirt and coat.

“No,” he said firmly. “Nothing could have been different; nothing could have changed. All happens just as the gods will it.”

“The gods are cruel.”

“And yet they are the gods.” Ignis finished buttoning his shirt and straightened up, feeling that he was holding himself very carefully, as if balancing something fragile on the end of his chin.

“I am going west,” he said. “The soil is not so tainted out there. They’re building greenhouses, running cable for heat lamps. Everyone is starving in Lestallum; I suppose they have to try something.”

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know,” Ignis said. “How long can you go without me?”

“Not so long as before,” Ravus said. “The poison spreads like a cancer, a slow inevitability.”

“I’ll be back in time, then.”

“Do me the honor of a kiss before you go,” Ravus said. “Just in case.”

Ignis had just started to button his jacket, but he paused when Ravus spoke. His fingers traced his own lapels, worn and frayed now from years of wandering.

“I prefer a promise,” he said at last, as he started for the door. “I will kiss you when I return.”


	13. Chapter 13

It had been a long time since Ignis had dreamed one of those strange, vivid dreams of the past, but after he had left Ravus and started on the trek west, one stole upon him almost at once. It came like a tangible force, an invisible wave that washed over him the instant he stopped to rest. It seemed he had scarcely closed his eyes when he was once more in that familiar room deep in the heart of a castle keep.

Everything looked the same. The shelves were still overflowing with books, the chests still filled to bursting with fine clothes and linens. Above the dressing table, a round copper mirror still hung, but it had been damaged, struck so hard that it had been pushed out of shape and all that it reflected was distorted and wrong. The stately bed was still draped with silk, but the curtains had been torn down and dragged across the floor with the rest of the bedclothes.

The colors were not so bright as Ignis remembered, as if a veil had been cast over all. Wisps of shadow clung to every surface, giving the impression that all the mundane things that had once been touched and held with impunity were now haloed by a dirty and forbidding aura.

Ardyn was there. As before, Ignis had the disconcerting feeling of coming face to face with the man and yet being unable to muster any horror at all. This was an Ardyn bereft of darkness, a man of flesh and blood, passions and terrors, like any other. He was alone here; of the boy, Valia, there was no sign. 

There was a solicitous tap on the chamber door. Ardyn whipped around to face it, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. He did not draw, checking himself at the last minute.

The man who had entered was tall and well-built, with dark skin and striking green eyes. He wore the sigil of the Temple of Shiva on a chain about his neck, and was swaddled in a great collection of icy-blue robes and veils in alternating layers of fluttering and stiff fabric, which gave the illusion that he moved within a sort of frozen waterfall.

“Damn you," Ardyn spat. "How did you find me? I’ll have the wagging tongue of whatever dog told you where I am.”

“It wasn’t that hard to figure out where you were.” The priest's eyes settled on Ardyn’s sword, half-drawn from the scabbard, and he sighed. “Stay your hand, my friend. I’ve come to talk.”

Ardyn shook his head fiercely, but dropped the sword back into place. “So, my brother sends his favorite whore to talk to me in his stead. You have a lot of nerve, Quintus, after what you have done.”

“Blame me if you must,” Quintus Antinous said. “For all of it. But know that Lucius did not send me. I came on my own, on the strength of what we once had.”

“We had nothing,” Ardyn snorted. “You were always my brother’s creature.”

“We were children together,” Quintus went on, looking at him dead-on. “It was not your brother that took in orphans after the Siege of Pyrrha. It was you, Ardyn, who insisted upon it. I know that in you there is the capacity for great cruelty, but for great compassion as well. I have seen both, and never flinched from either.”

“And you have come to play upon that,” Ardyn said, eyes narrowing. “In the hopes that I might spare your temple. That nest of vipers that writhe and coil and whisper slander from poison maws. Where you, my little foundling, scheme behind my back with the rest of them. I will burn your temple beyond ashes, strike it from memory. Not one stone on another will stand before I am through.”

“Do what you must with the temple,” Quintus replied. “It is as you say, mere stones upon stones. But if you think such an act will cut the head from the serpent that strikes at you, then you are sorely mistaken.”

“If you intend to speak to me of my enemies, then you can save your breath,” Ardyn replied. “For I have many, which I well know. If you intend to speak to me of friends, then you may hold your tongue on that account as well, for I have none.”

“I intend to speak to you of family. Of your brother.”

“Than you are even more of a sentimental fool than I took you for.” Ardyn started for the door, doubtlessly meaning to sweep past Quintus and out into the hall. Quintus Antinous brought him up short, though, setting a hand on his arm.

“You must forgive him, Ardyn.”

Ardyn jerked away from his touch, as if it had burned him. “How dare you come here and talk of forgiveness? How brazen a traitor are you?”

“I am no traitor,” Quintus Antinous said. “Stop talking nonsense. You must forgive your brother, not for his sake but for the sake of us all. For the sake of this kingdom.”

“My brother conspires to snatch my throne from under me. He wants to install a theocracy of crazed, snow eating zealots. Let him try.”

“Your brother has the love of the people, the trust of the satraps and the court. Even the generals respect him. Your generals. They say the goddess has chosen him.”

Ardyn snatched his arm away. “I don’t have to listen to this.”

“But he is not you, my lord,” Quintus Antinous pressed on, forcing Ardyn to hear him. “He does not know what it is to fight and bleed in the service of a fantastic dream. He does not have the capacity to imagine a mighty empire and then to create it, as if tearing it from the jealous grip of fate itself.”

Ardyn had paused. Quintus took his arm again, turning him so they were looking at each other. “Your people loved you once. They will love you again if you give them half a chance. Forgive your brother, Ardyn. Rule at his side. He will tend to matters of peace, and you to war.”

When Ardyn did not respond, Quintus took it to mean that he was thinking the matter over. “I will plead your case,” he continued. “We will go together.”

“You will plead my case,” Ardyn echoed. The words seemed bereft of meaning coming from him. “You, so reasonable and level-headed. Heeded by all men who would curry favor with my brother. They laugh at you behind your back, the way you have unmanned yourself for him.”

“Do you think I care what they say?” Quintus said. “Or what you say, for that matter, as you cast about blindly in your grief for some way to hurt me enough that I abandon you too?” 

“It was never my intention to hurt you, dear Quintus,” Ardyn said. His voice had become suddenly tight and brittle, an overdrawn bowstring poised to let fly a calamitous volley. “It is only him that I want to hurt.”

Quintus Antinous realized that something was terribly wrong and he tried to pull away. A moment too late, though, as Ardyn’s hand snapped out and closed around his throat. He took a single step forward, backing the young priest against the wall.

“Please, Ardyn,” Quintus choked out. “This will change nothing. Not even the pain you feel.”

“You know I cannot forgive him,” Ardyn said. “But then, I am only mortal. Perhaps the holy man will have better luck. We will see if he finds it in that tender, devout heart of his to forgive me.”

He drew a dagger from his belt, and with a flick of his wrist drove the blade in under Quintus’ ribs. Quintus opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out with a strangled cough. When Ardyn stepped back and released him, he slid down the wall without struggle or sound. His hands were locked around the blade buried in his side. There was very little blood on his robes, but it was clear from the way his breathing was rapidly becoming wet and labored that his chest cavity was already filled with it.

Ardyn looked down at him for a moment. His hands slowly clenched into fists at his side; he flexed the fingers as if reminding himself of their strength.

He turned sharply on heels, intending to leave, but then the door to the chamber was wide flung open and three of the palace honor guard burst through, fully armored with sabers drawn. Ardyn recoiled a step, and before he could right himself the guards gave way, making a passage through which Lucius Gaeus could pass, the long train of his temple robes dragging behind him, his jeweled veils clicking faintly.

“What a mess you have made, brother,” he said in a soft voice.

Ardyn made no response save to reach for his sword. He had not finished unsheathing it when Lucius made an off-handed gesture towards him. “Freeze.”

Instantly, a film of hoarfrost formed on Ardyn’s skin. His lips turned blue and his hair crackled as it froze around his face. He made a few abortive attempts to move, his hand twitching around the hilt of his sword, before he fell still. Only his eyes stirred, shifting to follow Lucius as he stepped into the room and knelt over Quintus Antinous.

“My love…” Quintus managed. His eyes were quickly clouding over, but when Lucius leaned close to him his expression briefly registered a spark of hope.

“You did well,” Lucius said. “You did just as I knew you would. The goddess will thank you in person for your service.”

He wrapped a hand around the hilt of the knife in Quintus’ side, and pushed. Quintus made a soft gagging noise, a bubble of pinkish blood formed on his lips, and then he was still. 

Lucius rose, taking a handkerchief from inside his robes and cleaning the crimson stain off his hands.

He returned to the door, and this time when the guards parted before him they all but stumbled over one another trying to get out of his way. Lucius spared a brief glance at Ardyn as he turned to go.

“Depose this tyrant,” he said quietly. “Leave no witnesses. Do as we agreed, and I will see that the Temple of Shiva no longer has need of your children’s services.”

He left them there, trailing a whisper of silk and a white swirl of frozen vapor in his wake. 

Ignis awoke in a cold sweat, breathing hard. Each inhalation seemed to sear his lungs with cold, and when he reached to wipe the moisture from his brow, he found that the droplets had frozen into tiny crystals of ice. He knew not what he had seen - been shown - only that it had been horrible. There was a cold knot of dread in his stomach, like a lump of ice. 

All around him the forest was silent, silent as the tomb. It was only when he pushed slowly to his feet that the sounds began, slowly, to return.


	14. Chapter 14

All happened just as Ignis had known that it would, but it did not feel the way he had thought it must. He was the last to hear the news that Noctis had returned. Deep in the Myrlwood, he’d had no cell reception until he emerged to a flurry of texts and missed calls. They summoned him not to Lestallum, but to an outpost near the fallen Capital.

It was happening already, without time to think or regret or demand an explanation.

Little any of that would do them now. It would have been a meaningless gesture, a decorative flourish without function. They would fight, perhaps even die, and then all would be said on the subject. 

Ignis had once thought himself eloquent, but now he knew how futile words had been. How little they had done for him. He would speak with action, with his blades. Those served him better, more reliably. Noctis would understand, he generally did when it really mattered.

They set up camp outside the walls of the city, speaking very little. Ignis thought that he might have to make some accounting for where he had been, what he did when he wandered out into the darkness on his long journeys. In fact, no one asked. They already knew, or else they thought they did. Perhaps it was as Ravus had said: he was the same as he had always been. When they looked at him now, with all those years of night gone by, what could they possibly have seen? What could any of them possibly say to it?

Noctis moved about them like a ghost, saying little but making each word count. He had become granite-jawed and taciturn in his long absence, but he had also acquired a slow and unceasing forward motion, like a glacier made flesh.

He had changed, changed so much, so profoundly, in the very core of his being, that when he came and found Ignis beyond the light of the campfire after the others had gone to bed and pretended to fall asleep, Ignis did not at first recognize the sound of his footfalls, the smell of him, the way he moved. It was as if a stranger had approached him and abruptly started to speak.

“Can’t sleep?”

“Can you?” Ignis replied.

“I’ve been asleep a long time.”

Ignis had the distinct feeling that Noctis was waiting for him to say something. “Your Majesty, we are all grateful for your sacrifice…”

“You had better be,” Noctis replied. It was hard to tell how seriously he intended it, but he sounded serious indeed, gravely so. “You know, though. That’s not what keeps me awake.”

“No?”

“A lot of people don’t think about how the world must go on after they’re dead. They prefer to imagine that everything grinds to a halt just because they aren’t around anymore. I don’t get to do that, though. The dynasty of Lucius is over with me. I don’t have an heir. So maybe, in this case, the world does end when I do.”

“I had not thought of that,” Ignis said. “But surely all will be well. A suitable king will present himself. What about Cor?”

“What about you?” Noctis said, with an edge to his voice that Ignis had not heard before.

He lowered his head. “No, Your Majesty. Not I. I am but your retainer, until the end.”

“So be it,” Noctis said. Ignis heard him turn away and begin heading back towards the camp. 

Those were the last words he spoke to Ignis alone before he ascended the palace steps for the final time, stepping out of the destiny they had all shared and into his own private fate.

But that was not what came to pass.

They stayed behind to cover Noctis’ retreat into the palace. Demons had converged in his wake, vicious with hunger. These were creatures that had been hungry for years.

Gladio formed them up, back to back, a defensive stance. “You stay out of this.” His voice sounded tight and overdrawn when he growled the words against Ignis’ ear. “Just keep to the rear.”

Ignis knew that Gladio only meant to protect him, in his blunt and gallant way, but something inside him revolted at the notion. He wanted nothing from this man, no matter how good his intentions. Already his body was winding up in anticipation. Gladio must have felt his muscles tense, because he barked, “Wait!”

But Ignis was already in motion, descending the steps of the palace three at a time. Something heavy and wet scraped against the stones to his left, and he flung a knife. It struck flesh with a dull sound, like a cleaver hacking into a hanging side of beef, and the thing advanced no more. 

The next was in front of him, breathing harshly around a malformed face. It uncoiled its long crooked body, rising above him. Ignis followed the sound of that strangled breathing as it towered above his head, then he thrust upward with his spear. The tip slid in easily, as if the creature’s flesh were already soft with rot. A rain of black, foul-smelling gore showered over him.

As the blood struck his skin, Ignis could see for a moment. Not the palace steps, but somehow inside. The view from the king’s throne: a room strewn with corpses, the corners heaped high with bodies. Some of them still twitching a little; all of them with mouths stretched impossibly wide, trapped in silent death-screams.

Even in a place like this, such carnage was impossible. These were the hallucinations of a diseased mind, made sicker by years in the dark. You couldn’t come back from that unscathed.

Ignis twisted hard to the side, the movement of air across his face whisking the demon’s blood away. There were more of them to his left, squeaking and giggling carrion eaters, Ignis dispatched them with his daggers, and when cold gore vomited over his hands, he saw again.

Noctis was approaching the foot of the throne, his sword in hand. He seemed rimmed in red, as if washed in blood.

He was seeing through Ardyn’s eyes, he realized. Whether his imagination or some inexplicable connection they still shared, Ignis was with him now. 

Something hit him in the side, sending him flying. Ignis fell hard against the palace steps, his temple striking the edge of a stair. His head filled with static, and for a moment he lost the vision. Clawing back to his feet, he threw himself back into battle. Every time his dagger struck flesh, it granted him a flash of what was happening within the castle keep. Ardyn was locked in combat too, sparks of unholy fire flying from his blade.

Ignis fought on, desperate for his visions to yield up a glimpse of Noctis’ face. He didn’t need eyes, not after what he had been through. A glancing blow clipped his shoulder; he barely stumbled, but for a moment the chaos behind his eyes swelled and burst. He was disoriented by it, only briefly, but long enough to suffer for it. The demon struck out at him again, its long thrashing tail colliding squarely with his chest.

He was sent flying, feet lifting clear of the ground until his back hit one of the granite walls around the Platea Basileum. His head struck the stone, and he then he saw nothing. Whatever connection he had unwillingly established with Ardyn was broken.

Ignis tried to get up. When he shook his head to clear it, he saw flashes of the Great Hall, the throne. Heaps of corpses, centuries of dead, trod beneath the feet of the king. And then, clear and plain before him, he saw Noctis take the throne, going grimly, unhesitantly, to his death. A light filled the chamber, not of the king but from another source, somewhere that Ignis could not see or comprehend. It blotted out all else, expanding not just in the room but also in Ignis’ skull like a white, opaque cloud.

Then, there was only darkness.

He came to with Gladio’s hand on the side of his throat, feeling for a pulse. Ignis started, bolting upright, hands groping along the broken pavement for his lost daggers. He found them, but before he could bring them to bear, Gladio caught his wrists.

“Relax,” he said. “It’s over.”

Ignis jerked away from him. He reached back, using the wall to help boost himself to his feet. There was a dent in the granite paneling, rimmed by cracks. His head pounded, and he could feel a trickle of blood running down the back of his neck.

“Take it easy,” Gladio ordered. “You’re probably concussed.”

He straightened up, reaching for Ignis’ shoulders, but he stopped himself. Perhaps, more accurately, something stopped him. He was suddenly unwilling to make contact again, as if Ignis were a creature that had bitten him.

Ignis scarcely noticed it. He had not needed Gladio’s help through all those long years, and he certainly didn’t need it now. There was still a ringing in his skull, and Ignis pressed the heel of his hand to his temple to quiet it. Immediately, he wished that he had not. Without that lingering hum of static, he felt strangely empty.

For a moment, he had been able to see. Even if the eyes were not his own, it had been welcome. All of that was gone now, and he was in darkness once more. The visions were already fading; they had become soft and blurred around the edges, like something he had imagined.

Only that final light remained seared upon what was left of his optic nerve. A flash of impossible white that he could not unsee.

“Then he’s dead,” he said quietly, as if to himself.

“You don’t know that.” Prompto was at his side, and he took Ignis’ elbow, guiding him. Though he didn’t much want to be led, Ignis allowed it. Trying to orient himself made him feel like he was going to vomit.

“There was a light,” Gladio said. “Bright enough to blind us. It came from the top of the palace, blew out all the windows. When we could see again, the demons were gone. It’s over.”

Ignis was silent, unsure of what he could possibly say. Noctis had done his duty, fulfilled his purpose, and now it was finished. They were all just too scared to admit it, too cowardly to go inside and confirm what they all knew to be true.

“You look pale,” Prompto said. “Do you need to sit down? Should we try to find you some water? Or--”

He did not trail off so much as stop speaking abruptly. Ignis could almost imagine that his jaw kept working, with no words coming out.

“What?” Ignis demanded. “What is it?”

He forced himself to concentrate, ignoring the clamoring in his head so he could sharpen his senses. Nothing seemed out of order, nothing out of place. He had not the slightest idea what could suddenly have struck his two companions speechless. 

Ignis pistoned his elbow into Gladio’s ribs, which seemed to snap him out of it.

“It’s Noct,” he said. “There’s someone with him. A man. I don’t recognize him.”

Ignis stepped forward, feeling Prompto’s hand slip from his arm as if his fingers had been struck numb and robbed of their strength. 

Noctis moved past him, pausing only long enough to set his hand briefly on Ignis’ shoulder. Ignis’ legs felt weak, and they threatened to buckle under him. He might have collapsed, but at that moment hands closed around his arms, steadying him.

“Rest easy,” said a gentle voice. Ignis did not know it, but it seemed kind. The words lilted with the hint of an accent that he could not place. “All is well.”

Noctis was surrounded now. Gladio and Prompto had converged on him, and Noctis held up a hand to cut short their abortive attempts at questions. 

“Wait a minute. I think this guy has something to say,” he told them.

The stranger made sure that Ignis was steady on his feet, then he stepped forward. He pressed a fist against his breast and bowed in salute.

“I, Quintus Antinous Sylla, speak as the herald of Lucius Gaeus Caeum, scion of Shiva, first and eternal king of the realm. The god-king’s line must not end, and he will not allow his favored son to go into the darkness. He sits the throne as regent, until such time as a suitable heir is born.”

“See?” Noctis said. “A last minute reprieve. Not bad, right?”

“Let off the hook so you can fuck?” Prompto said. “That’s better than not bad.”

“I think I’ve got at least one good royal heir in me.”

“We’ll ask the ladies if that’s true.”

Ignis did not move to join them. He held himself a little apart, listening to them talk. Weak with relief at the knowledge that Noctis was alive, and yet never so sure as he was now that he no longer belonged with them.

Someone touched the back of his wrist, and Ignis stiffened. His body tightened up, as if preparing for a fight. But it was only the strange spirit messenger who had come down from the palace with Noctis. It seemed he did not quite belong with the king either.

“You serve your master well, noble Scientia,” Quintus Antinous said in his odd, kind voice. “The god-king rewards loyalty to his line.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” Ignis said. “I did what was required of me. That deserves no reward.”

He started to pull away, but Quintus Antinous caught him by the hand, pulling him back. For a spirit, he was deceptively human. His skin was warm, and he had the smooth palms of a man who had not held a sword in a long time, if ever.

Ignis allowed himself to be drawn close to that gentle, reassuring presence. He tilted his chin back, and Quintus Antinous pressed a dry kiss to his brow. A jolt went through him as if the touch of his lips had charged him with electricity. His senses were overwhelmed by a flood of light.

“Open your eyes,” Quintus Antinous said. “Behold the world that you have helped make.”

Ignis blinked a few times and the light abated. It did not fade entirely, though. Gradually, vague shapes and smudges of color began to resolve out of it. Slowly coalescing into a familiar tableau.

Quintus Antinous was looking down on him with a quizzical smile. His eyes were green. By the time Ignis realized what was happening, it was too late to turn away, though this was not the face he longed to see.

Ignis turned, the ruined streets of Insomnia and the crumbling towers of the palace revolving around him like specters of the real world. They were all becoming clear, drawing into increasingly sharper focus as his ruined eyes healed.

He had never dared to hope for this. He could see again.


	15. Chapter 15

Making the long trek through the northern mountains was somehow more difficult now than it had been when he was blind. In those dark days, he had moved automatically, on muscle memory, with no knowledge of how narrow the path really was, and how steep the drop to the valley below.

He was far enough from the capital that the sky was still in a state of permanent twilight. The light that radiated from the top of the palace at Insomnia was slowly spreading across the land, returning the normal cycle of night and day. It hadn’t reached this far yet; Ignis had managed to stay ahead of it.

There was still one more thing to do, before he could rest.

Quintus Antinous’ words still resonated in his ears. He had restored Ignis’ sight, and then, almost before Ignis could comprehend the full enormity of what had just happened, pulled him close and put his lips against his ear.

“I know of the Oracle Successor. It is not too late for him.”

It was a curious way to refer to Ravus, who had long since proven that he had neither the power of kings nor of Oracles. Still, he was of that sacred lineage, and as long as he was alive so was the chance that another Oracle might be born. 

Things could go back to how they had been. Order from chaos, the peace and prosperity of the past restored.

Ignis was not thinking of it precisely like that as he climbed the last near-vertical ascent. He was thinking only that there was one final task to which he must set his hand. For Ravus, who had been patient, even kind, when Ignis had shown him nothing but coldness in return. At least Ignis had the promise of Noctis’ return to give him strength. Ravus had never believed in that, and yet he had remained, unfaltering, when all about them fell to ruin.

If there was a chance that he could be human again, Ignis wanted to take it.

He had left Insomnia behind without a word to anyone. It would have been too much to explain, too much that he had to hold back. He hoped that Noctis and the others would understand, or would at least overlook, but he didn’t hold out much hope that they would. 

When he at last came upon the crumbling ghost town deep in the mountains, Ignis was shocked by what he saw. It was worse than he had ever imagined.

There were still a few buildings left standing, but even these were quickly falling into ruin. Creeping vines had grown up the walls, seeming to cover every surface. They were flecked with small black flowers, like none Ignis had ever seen before, shaking free loose dusty pollen, the color of ashes, at the slightest touch.

It smelled horribly of decay. Wrapping his traveling scarf around his nose and mouth, Ignis pressed on through the ruins, counting his steps and carefully noting each turn, until he came to one small cabin that seemed in slightly better shape than the rest.

All those years he had been coming here, he had pictured the place as dilapidated but possessed of a rustic charm, a quaint country retreat from the trials of the world.

He could not have been more deluded. The cabin was in shambles. What furniture it had once held was eaten through by rodents, reduced to heaps of scrap and wet sawdust. One of the corners of the roof had collapsed, letting in a great quantity of dirty snow, stained black. The filthy pollen of the night-blooming flowers coated every surface, sending up thick puffs like dreamy shadows every time Ignis took a step or touched a surface.

It smelled like mold and wet-rot; Ignis was taken aback. He had thought his sense of smell unnaturally keen in the days when his eyes were damaged, but the only smell he had ever associated with this place was the fresh, clean smell of a good hard rain.

“Ravus?” he called out into the darkness. “My lord, it’s me. It’s Ignis.”

Something moved in the shadows, far back in the corner, an unnatural, staccato movement in the darkness. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Ignis felt his breath catch in his throat. The voice was unmistakable as Ravus’, but wrong somehow. As if another had been doubled over it, one horribly distorted, at once wet and metallic.

“It’s all right,” Ignis said. “Everything is all right now.”

He started forward. Though this was still the Ravus he had known, he was careful to keep his hands in plain view, moving slowly as if around an unpredictable animal.

Ravus tried to back away, but not quickly enough. Ignis caught him by the arms. He expected to find metal beneath his right hand, but instead he felt something like bone. It was cool to the touch, giving the illusion of dampness. There was a slat of light coming through the hole in the ceiling; Ravus put his face up into it and Ignis saw him for the first time in years.

He did the last thing he wanted to do, the last thing he should have done: he pulled away.

The left side of Ravus’ face was dreadfully mutilated, pulled sideways, as if it were wax that had melted and then been badly prodded back into shape while it was still soft. His skin was flecked with mottled scales, but they were not smooth and neat. They were a patchwork of different sizes, bulging around his cheekbone and jaw, undulating slightly as if there were pools liquid underneath. From between the scales oozed a black viscous; more of it leaked from the corner of Ravus’ slitted red eye.

A pair of black horns crowned his head, nearly a foot in length. They pushed up from within Ravus’ platinum hair, no longer full and lustrous, but lank and patchy.

It took Ravus a second to realize that Ignis could see him, but then he pulled violently away. “Don’t look at me,” he hissed in that unnatural rattling voice. “How dare you?”

Ignis swallowed hard. He hadn’t come all this way, defied what Noctis would have wanted, to lose Ravus now. Gently he pulled him back, into the light. Ravus blinked against it, turning the darkened part of his face away from it. There was almost no sunlight in the sky, but what little there was seemed to hurt him.

“It’s all right,” Ignis told him again. “All is well. The king has returned to us.”

“I know,” Ravus said. “I knew from the moment I saw light in the sky. Why are you here? To tell me that? You should be with him.”

“I’m here because I think there is still something I can do for you.” He leaned over and kissed Ravus on his cartilaginous lips. He did it slowly, carefully, as if afraid of scaring him off. It tasted cold, cold as always, and after it was done Ravus relaxed. The red glow in his ruined eye receded, and when he looked again into the light he could tolerate it better.

“I won’t have you do this,” he said. “Force yourself, and for what? So that I can have another few hours? Another few days? Until the sun rises and overtakes me. No, best to leave this sad chapter in both our pasts, so that I can never hurt you again.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” Ignis said. “It was I who was cruel. Because you knew about Ardyn, because you knew everything. But I can fix this now.”

“Then you will be the marvel I always knew you to be,” Ravus said. All at once, his gaze shifted from Ignis’ face to focus on a spot just beyond his right shoulder. 

“Are you alone here?” he said.

Ignis was brought up short by the question, but only for a moment. Then he felt it too, the steady pulse in the air. In the slanted light that broke through the roof, a form began to take shape, plucked from the bright threads that wove between black motes of dust. In a moment, they had coalesced, taking the familiar form of the spirit messenger.

“You could do that all along?” Ignis asked. “You might have come ahead of me, then.”

“To be honest, I hadn’t the slightest idea where to look,” Quintus said. Ignis wasn’t facing him, but he could tell from his voice that he was smiling. “Thank you for showing me the way.”

He looked down and Ravus and continued, not unkindly, “Blood of the Oracle, suffer no more. All is well.”

“Wait--” Ravus started to say, but Quintus raised his hand and a flash of white light filled the room. 

Ravus caught his breath sharply, as if he’d just been struck hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Ignis found his hand and gripped it hard. The light faded, but his eyes were slow to adjust. When he could see again, he was looking into Ravus’ face. The twisted mutations were gone: the twin horns returned to platinum hair, the oozing scales replaced by skin, the red reptilian eye now clear blue.

He looked just as Ignis remembered, if not even more beautiful. Where once his brow had been creased with lines of worry now it was smooth; where once his skin had been raw from wind and sun, now it was clear and flawless. Only the clawed metal arm remained, but even it seemed polished and new.

Hesitantly, Ravus reached up to touch his own face, running his fingers over the new, perfect skin. His lips tightened. He didn’t seem as happy as he should have, but Ignis didn’t think to ask what was wrong. Instead, he sank his fingers deep into Ravus’ hair and pulled him down for a kiss. Ravus made a little sound of surprise when their lips first met, but then he leaned into it, moaning as Ignis licked into his mouth.

Ignis did know how long they held each other like that, but by the time he finally broke away his lips felt swollen and sore. He pressed their foreheads together and sighed, “I don’t know what to say to you.”

“It’s all right.” Though Ravus still had not acknowledged his healed face, he was smiling now. “Your friend is gone.”

Ignis started to reply, but then he realized that Ravus’ hands had come to rest on his waist, his thumbs drawing along the ridges of his hip bones. Ignis felt himself flush. “Absolutely not,” he said. “Not here.”

“Then where?” Ravus said. “When?”

“Soon enough,” Ignis told him. He had been hoping to sound stern, but the effect was ruined by his deepening blush. It had spread all the way to his ears. “Let’s get off the godforsaken mountain first.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, at this. Everything is going so well for these two. I'm sure it will all be fine...

They made good time hiking back down the mountain. Ravus was swift and sure-footed on the ice, and he kept pace the entire way despite his unfamiliarity with the path. He had always been a creature of the wild places; before he had gone over to the Empire, he had earned his reputation for defending distant outposts at the furthest corners of Tenebrae’s territory.

It seemed he had lost none of his untamed ways, or his poise. When Ignis slipped on a patch of snow, Ravus was quick to catch him around the waist, effortlessly and gallantly steadying him until he regained his balance. Though Ignis was contrite and apologetic for slowing them down, vowing both to Ravus and himself that it wouldn’t happen again, he was reluctant to forget the press of Ravus’ arm around him, the way it had made his stomach turn over weightlessly.

Aside from that brief moment, Ravus had not tried to touch him. Though he had been eager enough in the cabin, it seemed that even that had been just another rash decision in a long line of the same.

In time, they made it back to the road. Ignis had brought the car as close as he could before leaving it to continue on foot. It was not the Regalia, not by a long shot, but it was the best he had been able to procure on short notice without attracting too much attention.

“We’ll drive straight through,” Ignis said. “There aren’t a lot of places to stop between here and Insomnia anymore.”

“Is that where we’re going?” Ravus said.

“Yes,” Ignis replied. “You’ll face the prince. I’ll explain.”

His stomach knotted at the idea of Noctis knowing much of anything that had happened over the past ten years. He had been cowardly, inconsistent. Lustful. Capricious and selfish. The sins piled one atop the next. He had been everything Noctis had once been sure he was not; in the prince’s absence, Ignis knew that he had shown his true nature, base and bestial as it may have been.

“I’ll explain something,” he amended. “Somehow.” 

He felt Ravus’ hand come to rest on his shoulder, stroking it gently. Ignis wiped discreetly at his eyes. “Don’t. Please, don’t.”

Ravus took his hand away. “As you wish,” he said with a sigh. “Take us back, then.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Ignis got behind the wheel and Ravus slid in beside him. He didn’t try to say more, and Ignis started the car and began to drive. The forest was thick up here, the breaks in the trees intermittent; they did not see the storm coming on. The violent return of the sun after so long in darkness had created unusual hot and cold fronts; sudden and calamitous weather had become common. When the first fat drops of rain hit the windshield, Ignis slowed the car and pulled over on the shoulder.

“The roads aren’t maintained out here. They flood when it rains. I’ll go ahead, look for lights. There might be an outpost, if we’re lucky.”

“Stay. I’ll do it,” Ravus said, but Ignis had already gotten out of the car and started up the road. It was on a slight incline, and the peak a hundred yards on offered a decent view of the surrounding valleys. Ignis put up the collar of his coat against the wind and headed up.

It was completely dark by the time he reached the highest point. Clouds had rolled in to blot out what little light there was from the stars. The wind was gusting fiercely, making the trees high above snap back and forth. A bolt of lightning lit the sky, yielding a momentary glimpse of the valley below: nothing but forest and darkness, as far as he could see.

A clap of thunder resounded hard on the heels of the lightning, and it seemed to split the sky in two. It began to pour, big hard droplets of rain that soaked his clothes in a matter of seconds.

Ignis turned to run back towards the car, but Ravus was already coming towards him. He met Ignis on the road and lifted the long tail of his coat to cover his head. The rain rattled off the heavy material as Ravus drew him close, took him back to the car and guided him into the back seat. 

He slid over to make room for Ravus to follow him in. As soon as the door was shut behind them, the windows fogged over. Ignis clenched his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering, and wrapped his arms around himself, willing the warmth to penetrate his sodden clothing. His face was turned away, so he didn’t see Ravus pull a blanket out from under the back seat, didn’t know what he was planning until he had tucked it around Ignis’ shoulders and drawn him back, pulling him close.

“To think of all those times I let you scold me for impulsiveness,” Ravus said. He slipped his hands under the blanket, unbuttoning Ignis’ shirt. He must have felt how tense Ignis’ shoulders were, because he sighed. “You’re freezing. Just let me help you.”

Ignis kept still while Ravus rid him of his shirt and trousers; he did have to admit it was much warmer without them. He watched while Ravus, enfolded now in a blanket of his own, shucked off his own wet clothes and tossed everything in the front seat. He snaked his good arm out from between the folds of the blanket and slipped it around Ignis’ waist.

“Come,” he said. Ignis let himself be drawn in, let Ravus guide his head down to rest on his chest. “It’s all right.”

Ignis drew a shuddering breath. He wanted to pull away, to prove to Ravus that he didn’t need this, but he stayed where he was. The arm looped lightly around his waist suddenly seemed like an insurmountable weight. He pressed his face into the coarse material that covered Ravus’ sturdy shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut.

After a while, Ravus shifted his grip, lifting his hand so he could stroke Ignis’ hair. The ends had dried into stiff little wires, and Ravus smoothed them into place the best he could.

“You were in such a hurry to get away from me,” he said. “I didn’t know. Can I even touch you? Am I hurting you now? Like this?”

“No,” Ignis murmured. He kept his eyes closed, focusing on the feeling of Ravus’ fingers threading through his hair, drawing the tension out of him. “I’m all right.”

“All those years, and you kept coming back to me,” Ravus said. “You saved me, you know. You saved me a thousand times over. I thought you wanted it too. But maybe the whole time, you were dreading it.”

“I didn’t dread it,” Ignis said. “I don’t remember anymore what I felt, but it wasn’t dread. I swear it, my lord. I wanted you to live.”

“And so I am alive,” Ravus told him. “Alive, and better than I ever thought I would be again.”

“You’re the same as you were,” Ignis said. “And my eyes are the same. And the sun will return, so soon the world will be the same as it was.”

His hand stirred under the blankets, moving over Ravus’ chest, feeling the way he breathed, so steady and sure. “I’m so afraid of everything going back to the way it was,” he whispered.

That gave Ravus pause. For a moment, his hand stilled its steady stroking of Ignis’ hair. “Do you want to leave it all behind?” he asked carefully. “Run away with me? My brave little hunter, there will always be places in the world that need men like you and I.”

Ignis’ throat contracted painfully. When he spoke, he had to force the words out as if pushing them around a knot. “No. As long as the king lives, I am all for him.”

Ravus’ hand resumed its gentle movement through his hair. There was something different in his touch now, something eager, that made Ignis’ heart beat faster. “I knew you’d say that,” Ravus told him. “And yet, the king is not here now. Who are you without him?”

Ignis shifted away from him a little, just enough to raise his face up to Ravus’. “If you figure that out, you’ll know more than I ever have.”

He studied Ravus’ expression in the dim light. His lips were slightly parted, the pupils of his eyes so dilated they almost blotted out the blue of the irises. All those small signs of desire that he had never seen before and yet somehow recognized.

“Come,” Ignis said. “Kiss me. I’ll be good.”

Ravus bent his head, bringing their lips together. His tongue pushed into Ignis’ mouth, making a slow, exploratory circuit of it. When he pulled away, Ignis reached after him, passing his fingers over Ravus’ face as if he had forgotten its contours. When he reached his lips, Ravus drew the tip of one finger into his mouth, sucking it.

Ignis felt a shiver pass through him, his eyelashes fluttering. Ravus pressed a kiss to the center of his palm, then to the pulse point inside his wrist. It felt like a spark of electricity on his skin. Moaning, Ignis swung his leg over so that he was straddling Ravus’ lap. Even with the heavy blanket between them, Ignis could feel Ravus’ sturdy thighs, the hard ridge of his cock.

“I won’t hurt you,’ Ravus said. “I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

While Ignis appreciated the sentiment, he didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t need to be reminded of what Ravus knew. “And I’ll make sure that’s the last coherent thing you say.”

He raked his nails down Ravus’ chest, digging them in so that a row of red lines appeared on the pale skin of his sculpted pectorals. Ravus only had time to gasp before Ignis bent his head to bathe the wounds with his tongue. “More gently?”

“No.” Ravus’ breath was coming hard and fast now, Ignis could hear it rushing past his ear. “Just like that, my vicious beauty.”

His hands ran up the outsides of Ignis’ thighs, cupping his buttocks. One warm and whole, the other cold and metallic, biting into the skin. He let Ravus lift him, positioning his body over the tip of his straining cock. He rocked back and forth on his knees, teasing him until he gasped out, “Ignis, please. You’re killing me.”

Ignis cupped his jaw between his hands and kissed him fiercely, feeling Ravus’ teeth cut into his lips and relishing the pain. He sat back on his heels, lowering his hips so Ravus’ cock slid into him. He took it in slowly, all the way to the hilt, letting himself feel every inch.

With Ravus’ mismatched hands on his hips to steady him, he began to move. He went slow at first, lifting his hips and then sitting back again, working Ravus’ cock from the head from tip to base. It was hard and thick inside him, and Ignis felt his body growing hot and hungry, remembering the shape of it.

Ravus ran his hands up Ignis’ back, pulling him down. Ignis braced his forearms against the back of the seat and arched his body over Ravus’, bringing his ear into proximity with his lips.

“More,” Ravus panted. “Don’t tease me like this.”

The words tugged at him, as if a wire had been strung from Ignis’ heart to Ravus’ lips. He cupped Ravus’ cheek in his hand, guiding his mouth to the side of his throat. “Kiss me. Here.”

Ravus licked the sensitive juncture between Ignis’ neck and shoulder, kissing and nipping at the tender flesh. Ignis felt it all through him like jolts of static energy. It was as if his very veins now pulsed and throbbed with electricity. 

It was good, so good. Beyond good. Beyond anything he was able to describe or apprehend. He came with a cry, twisting in Ravus’ grip as Ravus seized his hips and pulled him down hard. Once, twice, and then he came.

For a moment, Ignis saw only darkness. When it cleared, he had collapsed on Ravus’ shoulder, panting for breath. Despite the chilly temperature outside, there was a sheen of sweat drying on his skin.

Ravus’ hand moved up his spine, seemingly without intent or purpose, until it came to rest on the back of Ignis’ neck. “I swear, that’s how I always wanted it to be with you.”

“I know,” Ignis replied. He forced himself to straighten up, stroking Ravus’ hair back with a trembling hand. “When we get back to the capital, might I do something for you?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Can I make you dinner?”

Ravus breathed an incredulous laugh. “That was not what I expected. Do you like to cook?”

“I do,” Ignis said. He eased himself off Ravus’ lap but he remained close, curled up against his side. He still wasn’t sure it felt quite right, if it was as effortless as he might have wanted, but he was mindful of the moment and of not wanting to ruin it. “What do you like to do?”

Ravus rearranged the blankets around them with a conscientious hand. “I like hunting. Horsemanship. Being outside during the first snow of the year.”

“I hardly like any of those things,” Ignis murmured into his shoulder.

“Alas.”

“Alas, indeed.”

Ignis put his face back so Ravus could kiss him. “Do you like this?” Ravus asked him.

“Very much, my lord.”

“Then we’ll make do.”

“In the morning,” Ignis said. “When the rain has passed--”

“Don’t,” Ravus said. “We’ll deal with that when it comes.”


	17. Chapter 17

On the third day, they reached Insomnia. After that night in the rain, Ignis had admittedly taken his time, but he had brought them home eventually. The closer they got to the capital, the quieter Ravus got. By the time they could see the spires of Insomnia on the skyline, he hadn’t said a word in miles.

Ignis knew he was not regretting what they had done. He kept reaching over intermittently to rest his hand over Ignis’ on the gearshift, to stroke his thigh. Ignis scolded him the first few times; it wasn’t safe to distract the driver, after all. Ravus seemed unwilling to stop, almost unaware of what he was doing. It was a comfort, Ignis had to admit.

The gates of the capital were wide open, unguarded the way they had not been since Ignis was a child. Once they were inside, the streets were empty. While refugees had begun to trickle in to the residential districts, the area around the palace was largely uninhabitable.

They had begun to return services to the area. It was slow going, but progress was steady. With the founder king on the throne in Noctis’ place, their luck held. All roads seemed to lay open to them; all obstacles were surmountable. Even being close enough to see the faint corona of light that surrounded the highest spire of the palace was encouraging.

Ignis pulled up outside, got out of the car. It took him a moment to realize that Ravus hadn’t joined him. Feeling a little sentimental and silly, he went around to the passenger side and opened the door for him.

Ravus took his offered hand, but when Ignis started up towards the palace he didn’t follow. He gave Ignis’ hand a tug and pulling him back so he could put his arms around his waist.

“You’re set on this?”

“It must be done,” Ignis said. “The prince has to know you’re alive. After everything that’s happened, I’m sure he will understand.”

“And then what? Give me to you with his blessing? A reward for all your years of service?”

Though Ravus sounded far from pleased, his hand travelled down Ignis’ back to wrap around his ass, pulling him close.

“It would not be like that,” Ignis said. “I don’t need his permission in personal matters.”

“Are you sure?” Ravus said. “When was the last time you had something truly personal?”

Ravus’ lips were exploring the side of his throat, teasing the lobe of his ear. Ignis was grateful for the excuse to ignore his last question. “I know,” he murmured, setting his palm in Ravus’ chest to ease him back. “But wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“Later,” Ignis said. “I’ll make it worth it.”

Ravus’ eyebrows peaked in pleased surprise. This time, when Ignis started towards the palace, he followed behind.

They attracted some attention on the way in, from the new members of the Crownsguard who had been hastily conscripted from the ranks of the Hunters, and from the crews of workers who were busy repairing the main wing. Not much could be done about it; everyone in the city would know before long.

The large reception hall on the top floor had been extensively repaired. The ceremonial throne still sat at the apex, but it was impossible to approach it now, hard even to look directly at it. A pillar of white light pierced vertically through the throne, stretching up to the peaked ceiling high above: white with a faint bluish tinge, pulsing from within as if with the beat of an incandescent heart. The pillar was all any of them had ever seen of the Founder King, save for perhaps Noctis, who would not discuss the issue.

There was a divan on the highest landing where the prince could sit in the interim. Not so high as the true king’s throne, but a suitable replacement for the moment. When the angle was right, as it was now, the light was like a halo around his head.

“Welcome back,” Noctis said. “We were kind of wondering where you’d gotten off to.”

To Ignis, he didn’t sound like he’d been losing much sleep over the matter. Since he had returned from other side, his affect had become flat, mechanical. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

“Your Majesty.” Ignis placed his fist over his heart and bowed. “May I present Lord Ravus Nox Fleuret.”

Noctis’ eyes narrowed. There was a strange new light in their dark depths, but it did not make his expression any easier to read. “Hard fighting out there, Ignis?”

At first, Ignis had no idea what he meant, but then Noctis reached up to touch the side of his own neck. Unconsciously, Ignis mirrored the gesture, and when he did his fingers brushed over the row of dark bruises Ravus’ mouth had left on his throat. Mortified, he clutched his collar closed.

Before Ignis could respond, Ravus spoke up. “Your Majesty, I have come to throw myself on your mercy. I have heard much of your generous spirit.”

He hesitated for a split second, long enough for Ignis to see that his body had gone tense. Then he knelt, bowing his head. “I asked your retainer to bring me so that I might plead my case in person.”

“I’m not sure how much of a case you’ve got,” Noctis said. “All right, let’s hear it. This should be good.”

Ravus’ throat hitched slightly, and it was only then that Ignis realized he was casting about for something to say. He had walked in here without a single word prepared. His gaze shifted to Ignis, just a quick sidelong glance from beneath his pale hair, then he began to speak.

“There’s no excuse for what I’ve done, and no defense that I can offer save that I thought what I did was right. I thought that I would cause some small pain, like the cauterization of a wound, that would keep the gangrene from infecting us all. But I was wrong. That’s all I can tell you now.”

Noctis rose from his throne. Though Ignis kept his eyes politely downcast, he could tell that the way the prince moved was different. He was the same man he had ever been, Ignis reminded himself, just wrapped now in a different package.

“It was right?” the prince said, stepping forward. “When you murdered my father? When you tried to steal my birthright?”

“I thought I would save us all--”

“You thought that you were special,” Noctis said, unimpressed. “You thought that you were anything like me? After what I’ve seen, I know what a bunch of bullshit that was. You were nothing, Ravus. No one from nowhere.”

Ravus didn’t flinch. “On the strength of what you and my sister once had together. In her good name, let us make peace.”

Noctis paused. He was still on a higher step, looking down at them. “You’ve got some balls, bringing her up to me.”

“Your Majesty,” Ignis said quickly. “Lord Ravus has suffered much from his sister’s death. You weren’t there in Altissa. You don’t know--”

“And you do?” Noctis interrupted him. “No, I remember now. You put on the ring. You burned alive. You know everything now, my friend.”

“Wait,” Ravus said, rising to his feet. “Your displeasure is with me, not Ignis.”

Noctis made a cutting motion with his hand, silencing him. “You’re all that’s left of her, as much as I hate to admit it. The last Scion of the Oracle. Come to me tomorrow, Ravus, and come alone. I’ll decide what to do with you then.”

Ravus’ expression didn’t change. His jaw was set, betraying neither irritation nor displeasure. “Yes, Your Majesty. I will return to you then.”

Ignis forced himself to glance back once more at Noctis’ face, the corona of bluish-white light that towered over him from behind. Then he hurried to follow Ravus’ retreat. He caught up to him at the elevators, just as he was stepping into the waiting car. Once the door had shut behind then, Ignis all but collapsed.

He braced his hand against the wall to steady himself. Ravus caught him around the waist, helping to hold him up. Ignis found his shoulders and clung to them tightly. “He’s never spoken to me like that. It was worse than I ever imagined.”

“He’s angry with me, not you,” Ravus said. “Don’t worry, all of that was meant for me.”

“How can I possibly not worry?” Ignis snapped. He jerked out of Ravus’ hold, leaned back against the wall, pressing his temple against the cool marble paneling. “That was not the prince I knew.”

“No,” Ravus replied. “He is a prince no longer, but king of a difficult realm. He’s trying to act the part. A firm, decisive leader, perhaps viewed through the lens of one too many comic books and video games, though.”

“Is that it?” Ignis said. “Truly?”

“Yes, truly,” Ravus replied. “I’m sure everything will be all right. Tomorrow, I’ll talk to him. Make amends. Whatever he wants, I’ll do it.”

“As your duty dictates, my lord.”

“That’s not the only reason,” Ravus said. “But maybe you prefer to think of it in such terms.”

He passed the backs of his fingers over Ignis’ cheek. “Of course, that’s not until tomorrow. Where are you staying, Ignis?”

Ignis looked up, eyes flicking over his face, taking in the tiny half-smile on his lips. “I have apartments here in the palace.”

“Well-kept, I suppose? Very neat? Modern, with clean lines. A place for everything.”

“I don’t know,” Ignis said. “I haven’t been there yet.”

“Then I suppose we won’t know what we’re missing,” Ravus said. He reached over and hit a button on the elevator panel, the one that stopped the car in its tracks.

Ignis grabbed him by the collar and pulled him down for a kiss. “You really couldn’t wait?”

“It’s a miracle of self-control that I didn’t throw you down on the steps of the Great Hall.” Ravus was already tugging at the front of his clothes, sliding his hands under the tales of his coat and up under his shirt until he found bare skin. “What do you want?”

Ignis opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it again. He could not forget the way Noctis had looked at him a moment ago, with cold and piercing eyes. Breaking him down, reminding him of all those things that he did not know about Ignis’ past and of which he must remain blissfully ignorant.

When Ravus tried to kiss him again, Ignis tilted his chin back, escaping him. His heart was suddenly pounding hard, and not from arousal. There was a bitter taste in the back of his mouth, like the adrenaline from some half-remembered terror.

“I wish for you not to be so vulgar,” Ignis said. It did not sound as crisp and prim as Ignis had hoped it would; in fact, it had been so off that Ravus gave him a curious look as he released him.

Ignis straightened his clothes, smoothing everything back into its proper place, before he reached over and started the elevator again.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's always time for a pajama party!

After a hot shower and a decent meal, Ignis had begun to feel more like himself. Dressed in a pair of black flannel pajama pants and a fitted black Henley, he was even comfortable. The clothes were from his old wardrobe and they were big on him now. He’d always been thin, but he’d lost weight during the years of darkness. His ribs showed through his skin, and his clavicles cupped deep hollows.

His musculature was leaner, harder, more compact: nothing soft, nothing extraneous. He had decided that he preferred it this way. 

Supply lines into the city were still only intermittently secure, and so there hadn’t been much in the way of food. There was plenty of wine, though, as the cellars beneath the palace had largely survived the initial bombardment and then remained all but untouched ever since. Ravus met him with a fresh glass of red as he came out of the bedroom, pressing it into Ignis’ hand.

“Will you take advantage of me when I’m inebriated?” Ignis asked, though he took the offered glass and drank.

“Is that what you’re hoping for?” Ravus said. “Though I’ve had quite a bit myself. Perhaps you’ll take advantage of me.”

Ignis looked up at him from beneath his lashes. Ravus was dressed in a black bathrobe with the Lucian crest emblazoned on the pocket. His clothes were being washed, and the robe was the only thing that fit him. He looked handsome, snug, all the demons inside at last at peace.

“You’re insatiable,” Ignis said, taking Ravus’ collar in his hands and walking back towards the bedroom with slow, measured steps.

“And what about you?” Ravus said. His eyes were focused on Ignis’ face: heavy lidded, the pupils already beginning to dilate into black and depthless pits. “You’ve changed somehow, my beauty.”

“I hadn’t paid it much mind,” Ignis said. His calves struck the edge of the bed, and he crawled back onto it, kneeling up so he was looking Ravus in the eye, dead on. He hooked his hands under the hem of his shirt and stripped it off over his head. As he cast it aside, into the corner of the room, Ravus leaned forward onto his hands, bringing his lips level with Ignis’ chest.

He kissed him in the center of the breastbone, and then lower, trailing his his lips down Ignis’ abdomen, pausing at the smooth stretch of skin below his navel. Ignis leaned back on his knees, allowing him access, until Ravus reached for the front of his pajamas and started to ease them down over his hips.

Ignis took him by the hair and tugged him up for a proper kiss.

“I want to do it,” Ravus said against his lips. “What frightens you?”

He hooked his hands under Ignis’ thighs, lifting him clear of the bed long enough to flip him onto his back. Ignis knotted his fists in the front of his robe and pulled him down.

“Not you,” he said. “Certainly not.”

“Then let me take care of you for once.” He tugged open the tie at the front of Ignis’ pajamas. Once it had been loosened, they slipped down easily past his slender hips. Ignis kicked them off, and as Ravus leaned back over him Ignis wrapped his legs around him.

Ravus began again, kissing that same lingering line downward from Ignis’ chest, to his sternum, to his navel. Slow and patient, as if he were savoring the taste of him. He cupped a hand under Ignis’ knee, bending his leg up so he could kiss the inside of his thigh. The tendon that ran from his groin down to his knee stood out sharply against his skin, jumping and twitching with each caress of Ravus’ lips. He reached the hollow of his hips, and Ignis felt his hot breath on the shaft of his cock.

A moan slipped from Ignis’ lips. “Please, please…”

Ravus’ mouth went over him, covering him, taking him into his hot throat. Ignis cried out, more from shock than any intensity of pleasure. It was harsh, inelegant, abrupt enough that Ravus glanced up at him in concern. Ignis didn’t meet his eyes, but when Ravus saw that there was no lasting harm he went back to what he had been doing.

His tongue worked the head of Ignis’ cock, swirling deftly around the tip, working down into the slit. He had never done this for Ignis before, because before it had always been a matter of need rather than desire, of the way only Ignis had been able to cleanse his body of the scourge of darkness.

Maybe, though, there was something Ravus could do for him as well.

When it seemed that he was hard enough, Ravus leaned back slowly, keeping his mouth around Ignis’ cock as long as he could until his lips slipped off the tip. “Turn over.”

Ignis did it dutifully, rolling over onto elbows and knees. The sheets were almost painfully stimulating against his body, especially where they scraped against the underside of his engorged cock. Ravus’ hands slid up the insides of his thighs, urging them apart. Ignis spread his knees to give him better access.

Ravus feathered a touch up the back of Ignis’ thigh with his good hand, tracing the cleft of his ass. His hand withdrew, and then a moment later was replaced by the tender heat of his mouth.

Ignis gasped, his fingers digging into the sheets, raking them up into stark ridges and valleys. “What are you doing?” he demanded.

Ravus didn’t answer. His tongue was working into the tight ring of muscle, flicking inside of him. It moved through him slowly, like waves, beginning in the pit of his stomach and radiating outward, down each limb. Ravus pulled back long enough to work a couple of fingers into him, sliding them in and out slowly. His body was relaxed and loose from the gentle attentions, and it didn’t hurt at all when Ravus stretched him open.

“Ravus,” he gasped. “Ravus, please…”

“What do you want, my beauty?” Ravus said. He knelt up on the bed, taking Ignis by the hips to steady him. “Just say it, and it’s yours.”

“I wouldn’t wish to be crude,” Ignis said, though he knew it was to late for that. He had already moaned and writhed beneath him during all those obscene acts, but Ravus was more intrigued than repelled. Even now, bent over him and kissing the back of Ignis’ shoulder, patiently waiting for him to ascent.

Ignis closed his eyes tightly. “Take me,” he whispered. “I want you to take me.”

Ravus thrust in hard. Ignis was relaxed and ready for him, and he took him in completely. His hips moved with Ravus', meeting each stroke. Eventually, Ravus pulled him up onto his knees so Ignis could lean back and rest against his chest. He could feel Ravus’ body shifting beneath his shoulder blades, hot flesh and cool metal.

He was aware that he was crying out with each thrust. He rallied himself long enough to lean his head back onto Ravus’ shoulder and say, “Come inside me when you do. It will help blot out the past.”

Ravus was more than happy to oblige him. Ignis felt the pulse of heat inside him, moving through him, filling his hollow spaces. He kept moving while he was still hard, kept driving Ignis’ body on, like the lash of a whip, until, with a cry, he came.

Slowly, carefully, Ravus let him down on the bed. Little shivers of pleasure were still running through him while Ravus retrieved his discarded robe, wiped them clean, and then stretched out beside him.

“My beauty,” he murmured, cupping a hand possessively around the inside of Ignis’ thigh.

“Don’t call me that.”

“It’s true.”

“Maybe,” Ignis said. “And maybe not. But you can’t just decide that’s all there is. You can’t look at my face and think that, because you find it fair, you know everything about me. It’s too simple, too neat. There’s more than what you see.”

Ravus shifted over him, kissing his ear. “Only God, my dear, could love you for yourself alone, and not your yellow hair.”

The corner of Ignis’ mouth twitched into the imitation of a smile. “But I can get a hair-dye, and set such colour there, that young men in despair may love me for myself alone and not my yellow hair.” 

Ravus’ fingers were still slowly stroking his thigh, a fact which Ignis was finding difficult to ignore. “That’s Yeats,” he continued, distracted. “And I believe he was being ironic.”

“So he was.”

Ignis turned in his arms so he could look him in the face. “Tomorrow, when you face the prince again…”

“What about it?”

“What are you going to say? What will you tell him?”

“Whatever he asks.” He must have seen something change in Ignis’ expression, because he quickly amended, “Within reason.”

“Please, be careful with him,” Ignis said. “He’s different somehow. I can’t place it, can’t explain it, but he’s not the man he was.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too weird, you guys? I can sincerely say that I have been in fandom long enough at this point that I don't actually know.

Ignis waited most of the day for Ravus to return from his audience with the king. It was not until it began to get dark that he started to worry. Whatever they had decided, surely one of them would have told him. Regardless of how bad it was, they would have told him the truth.

Though he knew that he could trust Noctis in all things, Ignis was hesitant to go to him and ask what had happened, afraid of how it might look. At last, he couldn’t wait any longer for news, and so he headed for the Grand Hall. Despite the late hour, Noctis was seated on the divan, watching the door patiently as if he had been waiting for Ignis to enter.

“What can I do for you, my friend?” he said. His dark eyes were sharp, alive with sparks deep in their depths.

Ignis swallowed hard. “I’ve come to inquire after Lord Ravus,” he said. “I had hoped the two of you would have come to an agreement.”

“We did,” Noctis replied. “Hours ago. It worked out pretty well, if I do say so myself. Everyone gets just what they want, or, at the very least, just what they deserve.”

“Fortune smiles on you, Your Majesty.”

“Fortune favors the bold,” Noctis replied. He stood up from the divan, and the pillar of light on the throne behind him seemed to expand so that it hugged his rising form. He continued to speak as he came down the stairs. “I never thanked you, Ignis.”

“It was an honor to serve you,” Ignis told him at once. “Whatever happened, whatever we endured, no thanks are needed.”

“I meant, for taking care of Ravus,” Noctis said. “If you hadn’t kept him alive, none of us would ever have gotten a second chance.”

When Ignis did not respond right away, Noctis went on, “That is what you did, isn’t it?”

Ignis’ pulse was pounding in his ears. If Noctis knew this, then he might have known anything, everything. Feeling as if he had suddenly been stripped and laid bare, Ignis licked his lips and said, “Is that what Ravus told you?”

“We didn’t talk about you,” Noctis replied. “I have other sources. Is it true or not?”

“I met with him,” Ignis said carefully. “During the scourge, yes.”

“I guess it was too much to hope for that he’d be an untouched vessel.” The expression on Ignis’ face must have changed, because Noctis added. “Untouched by the darkness, I mean.”

“I don’t understand,” Ignis said. “Your Majesty, where is Lord Ravus?”

“That’s the loyal friend I know,” Noctis replied. “Always putting others before himself. Let me tell you something, Ignis, the line of Lucius has plenty of secrets. I guess you think you know a lot, but there’s much you won’t find in any book. Big ancient magics, the legacy of kings.”

Ignis’ hands twisted into fists at his sides. “I wouldn’t presume--”

“You think this is the first time something like this has happened?” Noctis said. “The first time the king has been left high and dry, without a suitable candidate to produce an heir? My father was on the right track when he promised the Oracle to me. She’s dead now; it’s too late for her. Her brother is a poor substitute, all things considered, but he’ll do.”

“What has he agreed to?” Ignis said. “Your Majesty, Ravus did wrong but he’s a good man. He wants to make amends.”

“He made that more than clear. Fortunately, there’s a way. He’ll take his sister’s place. The old magic allows for it. Lord Fleuret will become Lady Fleuret. My consort.”

Ignis’ jaw dropped open. He could not believe what he was hearing, and it took a few false starts before he could speak. “Your Majesty, isn’t this abrupt? I would hate to think you have made a rash decision.”

“What did you think would happen, Ignis? That he would come here, tell me he was really sorry for inconveniencing me, and then I’d let him hop right back into your bed before the sheets were even cold?”

“We don’t have to talk about that,” Ignis said.

“Then let’s drop it,” Noctis said. “Ravus knows his duty, and he’s prepared to do it. I hope I can still say the same about you.”

That gave him pause. Ignis dropped his eyes, looking away. “Always, Your Majesty.”

“We all must make sacrifices. It’s not any better, being the one who has to ask for them.”

“So it isn’t,” Ignis said. He cast about for something more to say, even if it was just the words to protest. It would have done no good, though. All had already been decided without him, and no pitiful complaining after the fact was going to change anyone’s mind.

Ravus’ duty was to the office of Oracle first, to his king second. To Ignis, he owed gratitude, if that. They had never even made each other any promises, not last night in bed, or during the downpour that had trapped them on the road. Not when Ignis had come to him with his eyes restored and looked at Ravus’ ruined face without turning away. Not then, and not during those ten long years when they had clung to each other in darkness, two deluded castaways who had imagined the island upon which they had been flung ashore could ever be something more than a heap of barren stone. 

“I understand, Your Majesty,” Ignis said quietly. “And I will keep my indiscretion with him quiet. I wouldn’t want it to reflect poorly on you.”

“That’s probably for the best,” Noctis said. He smiled, along the same easy lines as always, but to Ignis it seemed different, like an imitation of the real expression.

“Can I see him?” Ignis asked. “Just for a minute? I feel as if I am leaving something unsaid.”

“I’d like to do that for you,” Noctis replied. “I really would. But there are purification rituals for the magic to work. It’s a whole big thing. You’d better not interrupt him just yet.”

Ignis glanced up at him quickly. He couldn’t bear to look Noctis in the face long, to stare down that mask of a smile. “I understand,” he said in a strangled voice. “These things must be done with exactness--”

“Still, I’m sure a minute wouldn’t hurt,” Noctis broke in abruptly. His eyes narrowed. “Come with me, if you must.”

Without waiting to see if Ignis was following, he started toward one of the many side doors that branched off the Grand Hall. Ignis hesitated a moment, but then went after him. Noctis took him down a long, dimly-lit hallway that Ignis had never seen before. It had only a single red door at the far end.

He stepped aside, as if waiting for Ignis to go ahead, but when he reached for the handle Noctis said, “Don’t go in.”

The prince reached over, unlatching a hinged window in the door. He let it swing open; there was a curtain on the other side, blood red and translucent, drawn across the opening. 

Very aware that Noctis was watching him, his strange bright-dark eyes missing nothing, Ignis raised his voice and said, “Lord Ravus? Are you there?”

A shadow moved on the other side of the curtain, it's edges smudged and indistinct. “How are you, my beauty?”

Ignis flushed at the name. "I’m well. His Majesty was kind enough to escort me here to see you.”

“Is he there with you now?”

Ignis kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, on the little square of curtain that he could see, undulating slightly as if stirred from behind by a gentle breeze. “He’s here, my lord.”

“I see.” Ravus was quiet for a long time, long enough for Ignis to begin to doubt that he meant to speak again. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say either.

“I had to do it,” Ravus said at last.

“I know that,” Ignis replied. “We all must do our duties.”

Again, Ravus was quiet for what seemed a long time. “I was half in love with you already, you know. If I’d waited any longer, seen you even one more time, I wouldn’t have been able to go through with it.”

If they had seen each other again, Ignis was quite certain that they would have ended up back in bed. If Ravus really was half in love with him, Ignis was pretty sure he could guess which half he was talking about. As for himself, he preferred to think of it in a different way, as a purely physical coupling that could be uncoupled just as abruptly as it had been joined.

“I’ll see you again,” Ravus replied to his silence. “When all this is over, I’ll be with you again.”

“The union has to produce two offspring,” Noctis said smoothly. “One for the line of Lucius, then another for the line of the Oracle. We’re both young and healthy. Willing. It shouldn’t take long at all.”

Ignis’ stomach tightened into a knot. It was suddenly hard to breathe, the narrow hallway pushing in on him.

“Ravus,” he said. “Ravus. I’ll be here if you need anything. If you need me again…”

Before he could finish, a wave of nausea rolled over him. He couldn’t say more. It hadn’t been enough, but Ravus might understand all the same. In the spaces between words, outside of logic and good sense, that was where they had always been at their best.

Abruptly, Ignis turned on his heels and fled.

He heard Noctis say his name, felt a hand close around his wrist, but he shook it off without looking back.


	20. Chapter 20

Ignis did not see the prince much as the weeks wore on, and he did not see Ravus at all. The former seemed ever engaged in some bit of official business, or else he was alone in the great hall, deep in conference with the blue light that stood as avatar for the Founder King. As for Ravus, he had disappeared entirely, vanished somewhere into the hidden depths of the palace. Either languishing through the ritual which would change his body for a time, or else already changed, already yielding to Noctis in a desperate attempt to make up for his many sins, to put things back how they had been.

Because he preferred not to think about it, not to wonder, Ignis arranged it so that he was often away from the city.

The food situation in Insomnia was slowly improving. They had secured lines of transport along which regular shipments could travel, and some of the long-fallow farmland was beginning to look as if it might support crops again. Still, they relied heavily on the Hunters to provide fresh meat, which they took from the shell-shocked and timid beasts that had begun to appear once more now that the demons had vanished.

Ignis went out frequently. He’d become serviceable at tracking by sound and smell during the years in which he had been unable to see. Now that his vision was restored and he could rely upon it as well, he was nearly preternatural in his ability to hunt down game and dispatch it almost before it even knew that it was being stalked.

He usually went alone into the wilderness. It was faster that way, less complicated by far. However, on one particular morning before it was light, as he prepared to leave the temporary encampment outside Insomnia behind, Cor was waiting for him at the edge of the treeline.

Ignis was certainly surprised to see him, but even more surprised that he did not mind the company. They had all heard much of the Immortal’s wanderings during the Long Night. It seemed that no matter how far Ignis strayed, it had never been far enough that someone was not eager to tell a story about the great demon slayer. 

If even half of what they said was true, then Cor had saved hundreds of lives. It was no small feat, even for a living legend, but Cor remained evasive when questioned, modest to the point of discomfort when praised. He’d been the first to discover the well-preserved wine cellar under the palace, and he’d visited it frequently since.

There were whispers that he was burning out, that he would end his long and illustrious career a drunk if he kept going at this rate. Ignis preferred to stay out of the speculation. He didn’t want to guess at anyone’s motives, not when he had seen first-hand the way they all nursed their own secret terrors, and buried pains, and sad concealments.

For the moment, Cor was as sure-footed and clear-eyed as he fell into step at Ignis' side. Though his hair had started to turn silver at the temples and he had put on about ten pounds that was definitely not muscle mass, he was as effortlessly competent and confident as he had ever been. Now, as always, the undisputed master of any situation.

They went in silence for a long time, before Cor finally said, “Ain’t seen you around in a while, kid.”

“I’ve been busy. There is always work to be done.”

“Like taking in every foreign spy and stray that needs a warm bed?”

Ignis lowered his head. He was neither angry at nor offended by the insinuation; it flowed over and through him like so much inconsequential small talk. “So, you heard.”

“Not everything,” Cor said. “Just that the two of you showed up together, saw the prince together. And that you haven’t been seen together since.”

“Is there something you wish to ask me?”

“Is there something you want to get off your chest?” Cor replied with a shrug.

Ignis looked over at him. Cor had not slowed his pace. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, his hand nowhere near the hilt of his blade. He looked relaxed, nonthreatening in his demeanor.

“Are you speaking to me as an agent of the crown?” Ignis asked coolly. “Is this an investigation into my conduct?”

“Of course not,” Cor said. He sounded genuinely offended, as if he could not quite comprehend what he was hearing. “Believe it or not, I was a little worried about you.”

Ignis straightened proudly. “As you can see, I am more than well. And as for Lord Ravus, he has made his decision: To support the king in all his endeavors, as he should have long before this. It’s not my place to second-guess him.”

“I suppose you’ve got your heart set on that?” Cor said.

“I don’t know where the heart enters into it,” Ignis replied. He didn’t want to be having this conversation, and so he picked up the pace as if he could outdistance Cor and leave him and his ungenuine, solicitous concern behind.

Of course it didn’t work. Cor kept abreast, matching his quicker stride easily. “You know, people are always going to talk. Especially about shit they don’t understand. But believe it or not, most everyone is sympathizing with you.”

“So?”

“So, what you need to understand is that you’re harder on yourself than anyone else is. I don’t know what happened to you out there--”

“No, you don’t know,” Ignis cut him off. “So you should leave it be.”

Cor was unruffled by the interruption. “I don’t know what happened to you,” he went on, deliberately. “But I know if anyone deserves to cut himself some slack, it’s you.”

Ignis was quiet for a time, staring him down with not a little suspicion. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” Cor said. “Haven’t I always had your back?”

“You have.” It was the truth. Cor had always been fanatically loyal to those he considered his allies, dividing the world starkly into those he would cheerfully die for, and those unworthy of a moment of his time. To Ignis, such a worldview was reductive and impossible, the philosophy of a child; he was still grateful for the side he was on. 

“Could you have a word with Noctis?” he asked suddenly. 

“About Ravus?”

Almost at once, he regretted having said anything, because he knew that Cor would take his part, not out of any hope that he might be able to change the prince’s mind, but simply because Ignis had requested it. “Forgive me. I’m ashamed to even ask you for this. I just thought that he might listen to you, on the strength of what you and his father had.”

Cor’s brows elevated in surprise. “What, exactly, did we have?”

It had not occurred to Ignis until that moment that he might be crossing a line, piercing one of the many tiny capillaries that kept the blood flowing in the arteries of power. This was not something that Cor would want to discuss with him.

“I mean only that you knew him well,” Ignis corrected himself, knowing even as he spoke the words how they must sound: Polite, but utterly meaningless. 

Cor shrugged. “He was the boss. He liked you a lot, that’s for sure. Never heard him say a word against you. I know he wasn’t always the greatest at demonstrating what he felt, but you were one of us as far as he was concerned.”

Ignis found himself studying Cor’s expression closely. He had aged, mercilessly so, but his bone structure was unarguably good, as if age were only a crude mask stretched over a still-handsome face. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Ignis heard himself say suddenly. “More sorry still that you never had the opportunity to grieve as you should have.”

Cor remained calm, unflustered; Ignis couldn’t imagine what he might have been thinking. “So, you figured it out. And here I thought we were being so fucking sneaky.”

“You were very discreet,” Ignis said. “I just put things together, without really meaning to. It was never my intent to embarrass you.”

“You didn’t,” Cor said. “You probably wouldn’t have, even back then. It was the old man who insisted we keep it quiet. He said he didn’t want to explain or justify himself to every court busybody. He didn’t want people saying I only went along with it to get ahead in my career.”

“I never thought that,” Ignis told him.

“Really? Because I did sometimes.” Cor had resumed walking again, moving more easily than he had before now that he had been unburdened of his secrets. “Never in so many words, but I didn’t have to be a genius to see that he made things happen for me as long as I kept him happy. There’s always going to be kings, after all. Men like us can just hope to stay on their good sides.”

Ignis followed close behind him. “I take your meaning, Marshal. Thank you for the advice.”

“Look, kid, you deserve a chance to be happy. It’s not like opportunities like that come around all that often. I’m not the one you should be talking to, though. If I were really any good at shit like that, do you think I’d be out here?”

“I don’t know,” Ignis replied. He felt tired suddenly, wrung out; he could no longer remember how he had found himself here, engaged in another bout of elliptical, pointless talk. “We all admired you. You seemed so confident of your place, so certain of who you were.”

“Give me a break,” Cor said. “As if anyone knows that.”

Ignis felt a smile come to his lips, grim but genuine. He hid it in the collar of his coat. “Yes, Marshal.”

“If you really want to know what the prince is thinking, I can’t help you. I know who can, though. You need to talk to that kid who came with the Founder King. Eyes like a hawk, that one. He knows everything that goes on in the palace.”

It was the last thing Ignis had expected, and he laughed quietly. “Only you would suggest something like that.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“He’s a spirit. A messenger of the gods. I can’t just book a meeting with him.”

“In the mornings, you can find him in the palace gardens. He’s out there every day. If he’ll talk with me, he’ll certainly talk with you.”

Ignis laughed quietly in spite of himself. “You are bold, Cor.”

“He’s a good looking kid,” Cor said. “Too young for me, though.”

“He is immortal and ageless,” Ignis reminded him.

“And lonely,” Cor said. “He’ll listen to you. What’s the harm?”

“None,” Ignis replied. “Unless we go back empty-handed. Then no one is going to listen to a thing we say again.”

“Take the lead, mighty hunter,” Cor said. He seemed to be want to put an end to this conversation, and it was the least Ignis could do for me. He set off at a trot, headed for a pool where he knew beasts congregated to drink. He could hear Cor behind him, swift and steady and, mercifully, all but silent.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A while ago I mentioned that I might have to slow down on updates sometimes soon. Well, that time is now. I'll keep new chapters coming as fast as I can, but (sorry!) this may be the end of daily updates.

Ignis had not thought that he would actually follow Cor’s well-meaning but utterly nonsensical advice. Though Quintus Antinous had shown him favor before, he knew that he could not simply presume the goodwill of the gods; that had led to the ruin of many men before him.

And yet, the time out in the wilderness had served to clear his head. Ignis knew that he needed to do something, make some decisive move so that at least he no longer languished in this polite limbo of uncertainty. On the morning after he returned from hunting, he rose early, dressed neatly but without ostentation, and headed for the palace gardens, making a great effort to not appear as if that was where he was going.

He wasn’t sure what he expected to find beyond the wrought iron gate. Like many of the other non-essential facilities in Insomnia, the gardens were still in ruins. The stone walkways were cracked and overgrown, all the fruit and flowering trees dead and stripped to a lattice of naked branches.

An abundance of the same black, night-blooming flowers he had first encountered in the north were lashed over every surface, but with the coming of the sun they had withered into desiccated skeletons. Smudges of black pollen remained, darkening the air, casting halos of shadow around all they touched, as if they absorbed the light around them.

Though he had come here with a purpose in mind, Ignis found himself drawn to those strange flowers. He hadn’t had time to examine them when he had gone north, but he had been curious about them. Spotting a thriving patch growing in a cool, dark place beneath a bench, Ignis knelt to inspect one of the blossoms.

It was small, about the same diameter as the tip of his finger. Four long, delicate stamen extended up beyond the rim of the petals. When Ignis touched them, he felt them quiver as if trying to escape him. They left a smear of black ash on his skin.

He was still trying to puzzle it out when he heard a voice behind him. “Hail, noble Scientia.”

Ignis wiped the pollen off on his trousers as he straightened up and turned to face Quintus Antinous. He looked bright against the darkened garden. Though the train of his blue robes dragged on the stained path, it was untouched by the black pollen.

“Hail, spirit” Ignis said. “I was looking for you.”

“Were you?” Quintus smiled. “I’m glad.”

Ignis studied his appearance for a moment: his smooth dark skin, and eyes a shocking shade of green, fringed with lashes so black and thick they give the illusion that he was wearing cosmetics. It was the same face that Ignis had seen in the strange dreams that had plagued him during the years of darkness. He remembered them, mostly, but they had taken on a transitive and insubstantial quality. Only dreams after all, and not to be trusted or heeded.

“Is that because you have another errand for me? Another favor that you want me to do?”

“You’re upset about the Oracle Successor.” Quintus’ smile had disappeared. “You think that I sent you to claim him knowing that he would be torn so abruptly from your side.”

“Didn’t you?” Ignis said.

“Of course not,” Quintus replied. “The god-king’s mercy is for all, not just the scions of his line.”

“And yet everything seems to have worked out in his favor.”

“Such is the nature of kings,” Quintus said. He sighed, and for a moment seemed painfully aware of how insufficient any justification he might have offered would have been. “Will you walk with me?”

“As you wish,” Ignis said. He let Quintus lead the way deeper into the ruined garden, watching him closely out of the corner of his eye as he carefully unwound and then rearranged the pale blue scarf that covered his hair.

“Are you lonely here?” Ignis ventured at last.

“What makes you say that?”

“A feeling I have when I look at you. I think there are some things I see more clearly now than ever before.”

“In truth, it is not what I thought it would be,” Quintus said. “This new life. I didn’t ask to come back like this, but the king had need of me. To be his voice, for good and for ill.”

“Where were you before?” Ignis asked, aware that he was taking great care with his words. He remembered what had befallen Quintus, after all. He had not died well, or happily, and he either did not recall the details now, or was very determined not to think of them.

“I was nowhere.” Quintus’ brow furrowed, as if he did not understand the question. “I was dead. Death is not a place.”

“I’m sorry,” Ignis said, embarrassed. “I don’t mean to pry. I suppose it’s human nature, to want to know.”

Quintus’ smile had returned as quickly as it had faded. “To know what happens after death? I should say that it is. Though I’m really not the best person to ask.” He stopped there, and looked up. He had brought them to the skeleton of a huge oak tree in the center of the garden, and for a moment he stared up into its naked branches as if studying the pattern they made against the bright, cold sky.

Gathering his long robes, he knelt amongst the tree’s roots. Where they emerged from the ground, they were covered with a fine dusting of black, as were the bottom few feet of the immense trunk, but when Quintus laid his hand against the gnarled bark, the ash retreated from his touch. 

“It must be three hundred years old,” Quintus said, concentrating on the tree. A faint, blue-tinged glow appeared at his fingertips. “Everything here is so new, so modern. It’s an amnesiac city, lacking in any memory of the past. But this, it’s been here for generations, even if the only reason it’s still standing is because no one has gotten around to cutting it down.”

“You’re healing it.”

“I’m certainly trying. I’m not sure what good I can really do.”

Ignis sat on a broken section of wall beside him. “I wish I could help you.”

“Your talents lie elsewhere,” Quintus said. “But it’s kind of you to say. You remind me of someone I used to know.”

Ignis thought that he detected something searching in his tone, like a probe extended into the darkness. He decided to take a chance. “You’re talking about Valia, aren’t you?”

Quintus winced at the mention of the name. “You know about him?”

“I know,” Ignis said. “Not everything, but enough. I know that whatever happened to him must have been terrible.”

“It was wrong,” Quintus said. “He was an innocent boy, caught up in something he had never wanted to be a part of.”

“What did you do to him?”

“I’d like to say that I did nothing,” Quintus said. “But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I failed to act in the face of injustice, and a person died. It was a horrible death. They tortured him until he confessed. At least that was over quickly; Valia couldn't take much. Whatever his life was like before, it had been charmed since Ardyn took him in. Any pain, any misfortune, he shielded him from it.”

He seemed, all at once, to remember who he was talking to, and he looked up quickly to Ignis’ face to see if he had upset him with the mention of Ardyn's name.

“I believe it,” Ignis assured him.

Quintus went on. “Once he had confessed, it was too late. The High Priest dragged him out to the courtyard. He wanted him whipped, until the darkness was driven out. I couldn’t bear to watch, but even inside the estate, I heard the screams. After a while, they stopped. I thought it would be over then, but Lucius wouldn’t allow it. He left Valia there all night, until Ardyn returned.”

His hand continued to make slow circles on the bark of the big oak tree, but the healing glow had faded from his fingertips. He seemed not to notice it, though Ignis did.

“He didn’t get back to the estate until dawn. He’d ridden his horse so hard it dropped out from under him, then he’d come the last three miles on foot. I was terrified of what he’d do, of his rage. But he was very calm when he cut Valia down and carried him inside. They said he was still breathing then, but he didn’t wake up. I’d sent for a physician, but Ardyn wouldn’t see him. He knew it was too late, even to hope. Valia died without regaining consciousness. I think it was a mercy that he didn't suffer, even if he never knew Ardyn was with him at the end.”

“And the High Priest,” Ignis said. “Lucius Gaeus. He is the same as the one who brought you back. The one who took the throne in Noctis’ stead.”

“Yes,” Quintus replied. “For I am tied to him, in life and in death.”

Ignis wondered how true that was, if Quintus even remembered the circumstances surrounding his own death. He knew better than to ask directly, so instead he said, “What about Ardyn? What became of him?”

Quintus frowned subtly. “He had Valia entombed in the north, along with half the royal treasury. All the beautiful things he had surrounded him with during his life, all he had wanted to give him. I’d never seen anything like it. Then he returned to the capital. And he--” 

He did not so much trail off. He simply stopped speaking entirely, as if he had completed the story.

“And he became the creature you knew,” he said at last.

Ignis frowned thoughtfully. It seemed that even Quintus Antinous did not know the whole story. Perhaps he had been made to forget; perhaps, more plausibly, he had forced himself to forget so that what he knew might not inconvenience the king.

“It was too late for Ardyn to be anything other than the man he was,” Ignis said, affecting a dispassion about the subject that he could not have possibly felt. “But what of you? You say Lucius Gaeus committed an unimaginable cruelty, and yet you still serve him loyally. I think that you are a good man, with a kind heart. Are you really all right with that?”

Quintus glanced over at him. He seemed momentarily surprised, even hurt, but then he laughed. “You do get straight to the point, don’t you? I’m not sure what you want me to say. There will always be kings. Though the official title and some of the trappings may change, there will always be such men as Lucius Gaeus. They impose order upon the world.”

Ignis nodded, though he was suddenly reluctant to concede the point. “I lived through the chaos that befell us when we were without a true monarch. And yet--”

“And yet?” Quintus said. “There is no ‘and yet’. No ‘but still’. No ‘even so’. This is the way of the world, and nothing can change it. I thought you understood that.”

“I did,” Ignis replied. “I still do.”

He was aware that his voice was growing quieter, dropping off with each word. If it became inaudible, he was afraid that he might not get it back, and so he forced himself to continue, blindly forging ahead. “But I miss Lord Ravus. I haven’t seen him in weeks, and I don’t even know if he’s all right.”

“You care for him deeply.”

Ignis nodded. “I do. And I know that he cares for me, which I why I don’t understand why he hasn’t even sent word.” 

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. “He knows I’m worried, because he knows everything about me. From the first glance, he knew me, for when he looked, he really saw me. Not a retainer of the prince, not a foundling in need of charity. Not in relation to someone else, but as I was, for good or bad.” 

“Then you have been fortunate. More fortunate than almost anyone.”

“I suppose that’s your answer?”

Quintus was calmer now. The glow reappeared at his fingertips, chasing the black ash from the tree trunk ahead of his touch.

“I don’t have a better one,” he replied. “Though I wish you could be happy.”

“You sound as if you say that to everyone.”

“I wish that everyone could be happy,” Quintus said simply. “But it is not to be. I think that, perhaps, we are all still paying for the sins of the past. The one great injustice by which a line of kings was founded.”

“They were good kings, though,” Ignis said. “Noctis was always kind to me, and his father. If they hadn’t taken me in when they had--”

“I did not mean to imply otherwise. The Founder King was good as well, perhaps the best of them all.” Quintus pulled his hand back abruptly from the tree. “Dark to the core. It is far worse than I thought.”

He rose, gathering his long robes around himself. Ignis, too, got slowly to his feet, facing Quintus Antinous though there was little he could decipher from his expression. “You’ve given me much to think about, my lord.”

“Don’t think too hard,” Quintus replied. “That is the source of more trouble than you know.”

Ignis regarded him closely for another moment, then he dipped his head for a bow and started back towards the palace.


	22. Chapter 22

It was colder than Shiva’s tits in a brass bustier, Cor thought bitterly as he sank, not for the first time, up to his knees into the drifted snow. It was just like that weird kid Ignis to drag him all the way out here. Cor supposed it would have been too much to ask for him to have his damn quarter-life crisis somewhere like Galdin Quay.

He doubted Ignis would even be particularly glad to see him. He hadn’t exactly left a forwarding address before departing the capital, after all. One day he had been there, and the next he hadn’t. When everyone began to realize that they hadn’t seen him around in a while, Cor had taken a couple of members of the guard to check out his rooms in the palace. They’d found the bed made, the dishes washed, clothes hanging neatly in the closet, and no sign of Ignis anywhere. It was as if the place had been set up for show, with no intent of every being lived in.

Gladio had been worried, but that was nothing new. For all his gruff posturing, that kid worried about everything. Whenever he sent one of the royal pages to the corner deli to pick up a sandwich for him, he about had a fit over whether or not they were going to get him regular mayo instead of the light stuff.

As for Prompto, he got that Ignis wanted to be alone, and he didn’t take it personally. He seemed to prefer the hands-off method, though not entirely out of respect for Ignis’ ability to make his own decisions. Ever the late bloomer, Prompto had finally learned that he looked good in uniform, and that women loved a man with a baby face and scars. Not that Cor blamed him for being distracted; when he’d been Prompto’s age you could have counted the rings on his dick and found out the real ages of all the finest cougars-in-waiting of the royal court.

Prince Noctis, now there was the real surprise. Cor had expected him to practically shit a kitten when he heard that Ignis had run off. He hadn’t seemed worried at all, though. In fact, when he’d first heard the news, before he’d had time to master the expression on his face, he’d looked more pissed off than anything.

Cor figured something had happened between them and he was just out of loop, no longer privy to the secret drama of the young. That was one of the benefits of getting to be his age, as far as he was concerned. And yet, all the same, when he’d heard rumors of a lone hunter who wandered the snowy northern wastes - a demon slayer without fear or compunction, rooting out the final few nests of monsters in the most desolate corners of the realm - Cor had felt that he must come and see for himself.

That was how he found himself trudging through the snow out beyond the final settlement. This far north, it remained dark for much of the year, which was, he supposed, why the last demons had fled here. They might have gotten bold enough to cross the frontier and into civilization, but there was someone out here keeping them back.

Nothing in the rumors of the mysterious hunter suggested that it was Ignis. They said that he was taciturn and steely where Ignis had always been eloquent and gentle. That he shunned civilization, while Ignis had always struck Cor as the type to not take indoor plumbing for granted. Not even the physical description matched. The hunter was tall and gaunt, with dust colored eyes all but hidden behind the layers of mismatched scarves that he wore against the cold. He could have been 15 or 50, or any age in between.

All the same, Cor thought that someone ought to go and make sure. He might as well volunteer; it was better than hanging around Insomnia getting drunk and nostalgic and sad every night. He didn’t handle hangovers like he used to, so it was probably for the best that he was getting out to stretch his legs.

He might not have been so keen if he’d known he was going to be fighting gusting winds and snow halfway up to his ass. It was as cold as getting fingerbanged by Ravus’ metal hand in a blizzard.

If he really did find Ignis out here, Cor figured he’d better keep that particular gem to himself. The kids today took everything so damn seriously.

As soon as the sun started to get low in the sky, Cor began to look for a place to shelter for the night. He was in no hurry to find the hunter, and he knew better than to let himself be caught out after dark. There was shit lurking around out here that he had tried to forget all about, like shaking off a nightmare in the harsh light of day.

He started for a ridge of rock that loomed in the distance, on the hope that it would give some relief from the wind, enough to build a fire. As he came near to it, the ground became rough, littered with boulders and fallen trees buried beneath the snow. It was slower going after that, as he picked his way through a minefield of ankle-breaking obstacles. 

He was still a half mile out from the makeshift shelter when the sun took its final dip below the horizon. It wasn’t full dark, but it was getting there quick.

That was when he heard a noise out in the darkness. It sounded like the scream of a woman in terror, and yet at the same time unearthly, alien, like nothing that had ever or could ever come from a human throat.

To Cor, it just sounded like trouble. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, but before he could draw he heard the cry taken up. At least five more screams rang out in the darkness, sounding closer than the first, and closing in. 

In a split second, Cor had made a decision. Whatever they were, trying to take them out on open ground when he was rapidly losing the light was what could conservatively be called suicide. If he could make it to the ridge, he could put it at his back, give himself a fighting chance.

He took off at a run. The creatures were still screeching to each other, but they kept their distance as long as he was on the move. It looked like he might make it to shelter without much trouble to speak of, but that was the moment his foot caught on something under the snow.

It was a buried branch, and it sent him sprawling. He went down hard on all fours, hurt more in his pride than anything. Except for his knees. Those weren’t what they used to be, and in fact they hurt a lot.

Cor didn’t let them slow him down. For the moment, the screaming had stopped, but he knew better than to think that the demons had backed off. Gathering his legs under himself, Cor started to push himself upright. A flash of movement on his side caught his eye, and he dodged away from it reflexively, throwing himself over on his side as a lithe and toothy shape sailed past him. Cor had the impression of a wolf, its fur patchy and jet black, rubbed away in places to reveal raw skin underneath. It had two long sickle-shaped claws on each foot, and a curved tail with a barb on the end like a scorpion’s. 

As Cor recoiled, the creature’s claws caught on the small of his back, skating over the skin, drawing two parallel rivulets of blood.

He could tell already that it was just a flesh wound, nothing to be concerned about. Not so worrisome by half as the realization that the creature was already pivoting around for a second strike. Cor started to get up, but a sharp tug on one of his legs pulled him back down. A second demon had just darted forward out of the darkness to fasten its teeth around his calf.

Cor booted it off, sending it flying, but by then the second of the pair had recovered enough to lunge for his throat. Cor brought his katana up between them, wedging the sheathe into the demon’s mouth. It clamped its teeth down on it, narrowly missing his fingers. A rivulet of black-threaded saliva oozed from the corner of its lips and trickled down Cor’s cheek. 

He didn’t panic. He’d seen a lot worse, after all. Even if this didn’t look great.

It was at that moment that another shape resolved out of the darkness. Cor had only a moment to register it looming over him before it made a swift, lashing movement, sending the wolf creature flying. It hit the snow hard, letting out one of those blood curdling screams as it scrambled to right itself. Without a sound, the shadowy figure sprang after it. Cor saw a glimpse of metal glinting in the fading light, and then the creature’s cry was cut abruptly short.

Whatever it was, it looked like it was on his side, at least for the time being. Cor got to his feet, unsheathing his sword. He caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, and he slashed laterally with the blade.

Another of the wolf creatures landed at his feet, sliced cleanly in two pieces.

They were coming fast out of the darkness now, spurred on by the smell of blood. It was a whole pack - a dozen or more. 

Cor had only a few seconds before they were on him, and he wasted a precious one of them glancing at the strange figure that had come to his aid. He couldn’t make out much, save that it was a man, tall and lean and wrapped in a patchwork of furs. 

He moved all at once, almost quicker than Cor could track. One moment he was standing stock-still over the corpse of the demon, and the next he was in fluid motion. He drove the tip of his spear into the first of the advancing wolves. Cor saw its barbed tail slash downward, but the hunter was already not where he had been an instant before.

Cor sprang forward to help him. His blood was pumping now; here was something he knew. He dispatched two of the creatures as they drew near, letting them get in close before he attacked. From the glances he got of the hunter out of the corner of his eye, he could see that he was moving fast, darting from one demons to the next, sometimes seeming to drop onto all fours, like a beast himself, feral and bloodthirsty.

They cleaned up quickly, cutting down most of the creatures and sending the few that remained retreating back into the tundra. The hunter seemed prepared to go after them, even taking a few steps into the encroaching night. He wavered a moment on the edge of the deepening darkness, poised to disappear back into it as easily as he had been yielded up.

“Hey, kid!” Cor called out before he could vanish. For an instant, it looked like the hunter was going to ignore him and keep moving. Honestly, Cor wouldn’t have blamed him for that, and he was more than a little surprised when the stranger actually turned back to face him. Slowly he reached up, raking the tangle of scarves away from his face. 

“What do you want?”

Despite what the rumors had led him to believe, Ignis had actually changed very little. Even after a year in the wilderness, he looked almost the same: delicate and ageless as a figure sculpted out of ice. His hair had gotten longer, his eyes harder, but these were only embellishments on a frame that was perhaps more familiar than Ignis would have liked it to be.

“I thought it was you,” Cor said. “What the hell were you thinking, making me chase you all the way out here?”

Ignis just looked at him flatly, as if he didn’t understand. He cast a pale eye up at the darkening horizon. “Follow me,” he said. “Before we lose the light.”

Without waiting to see if Cor was behind him, he set off through the drifts, moving with swift purpose, seeming to glide effortlessly on top of the snow. Cor was left struggling to keep up; he’d twisted his ankle something good when he tripped earlier, and it was starting to swell inside his boot. He wasn’t about to complain, not after what could have happened.

Instead, he just stayed focused on Ignis’ back, watching the way his lean body swayed loosely inside a cloak of furs. There were a pair of daggers belted around his waist and a spear slung over his shoulder. They were both the real deal, not Glaives. That didn’t surprise Cor at all; everyone knew those things could be tracked. They were stuffed full of GPS microchip bullshit, and anyone smart who wanted to hide would have ditched his Crownsguard-issued weapon at the first opportunity.

Ignis had come out here fully intending not to be found. Briefly, Cor wondered if he had made a mistake. He hadn’t expected Ignis to be thrilled to see him, but he’d still thought it might be the right thing to do. As Ignis moved ahead of him, never once looking back, Cor was beginning to doubt even that.

Before Cor could plan his next move, Ignis stumbled. It was just one misstep, but Cor knew at once that something wasn’t right. He jogged to Ignis’ side, catching his elbow to steady him. “You all right?”

Ignis cast a sidelong glance at him. His eyes were hooded by dark shadows, twin glittering points in their depths.

Cor’s gaze was drawn downward, to a dusting of dark spots on the white snow. While Cor contemplated it, another spot abruptly blossomed next to the others, then one more. 

It was blood, he realized, dripping steadily from the tips of Ignis’s fingers.

“Shit,” Cor said. “They got you?”

He reached for Ignis, who wrenched away from him. “It’s nothing. Just a graze.”

Cor hadn’t gotten a good look at it, but seemed like more than that. There wasn’t much they could do out here, though. When Ignis straightened himself out - Cor could see now that he was favoring his right side heavily - and started to move again, there was nothing to do but follow him.

He may have already overstepped his bounds coming out here. Ignis was almost certainly pissed at him. In his quiet, slow-burning, mild-mannered way, he was furious, which was actually way worse and scarier than if he’d just yelled or picked a fight or taken a swing at him.

It was too late to go back now. Whatever happened, he’d have to see this through.


	23. Chapter 23

Twenty minutes later, they'd made it to one of the innumerable small shelters maintained by the Hunter’s Guild along the frontier. It looked like Ignis had claimed this one for himself: The snow was cleared away from the front door, the perimeter was rigged with makeshift alarms, and there was a banked fire in the stove.

“Get that going again,” Ignis said, jerking his chin towards the smoldering coals.

While Cor cleared the ash out of the stove and added fresh wood, coaxing the fire back to life, Ignis shed his heavy fur parka. Underneath it he wore watertight boots that reached above the knee, along with a close-fitting leather tunic secured with buttons that looked as if they had been carved none too neatly out of bone or horn.

This he slipped off as well so he could get at the wound on his arm. It was a long gash that ran along the ball of his shoulder. Though it had stopped bleeding and it was much cleaner than it might have been, it still didn’t seem like something to mess around with by Cor’s estimation. He looked on with some concern as Ignis ran his fingers along the wound, probing it, seeming to feel no pain at all.

He turned away to retrieve something from the shelf by the door, and Cor was left looking at his naked back. The skin there was smooth and flawless, milky white from his slim waist to the nape of his neck. 

Cor had fully and consciously embraced his avuncular role, and so he didn’t stare. He did consider it, though.

Ignis returned to sit by the fire, kneeling on the hide rug in front of the stove; there were already two worn grooves in the fur that matched the shape of his calves perfectly. He set a box on the fur in front of him and cast a glance in Cor’s direction.

“Take your boots off. You’re tracking mud.”

It was easier said than done. The shoes the locals at the last outpost had sold him were laced up tight with leather straps to keep the water out. By the time Cor had gotten them off and tossed them by the door, Ignis had opened the little box and retrieved a needle and a length of sturdy thread. He lit a sliver of wood in the stove and then held the flame under the needle until the metal blackened.

Cor took note of how steady his hands were as he threaded the needle and lined the point up with the gash in his arm.

“I can take care of that for you,” he said. “It’s going to scar at that rate.”

Ignis didn’t even look at him, he just slid the needle into the edge of the gash, carefully pulling the stitch taut so that the edges of the wound drew together. His jaw was set, eyes fixed straight ahead, seemingly unseeing.

“Kid…” Cor started to reach for him, but Ignis shot him such a sharp, cold look that he thought better of it.

“What do you want?” he asked, jaw clenched.

“To help you with your damn arm. Is that a problem?”

“Did Noctis send you?”

“No, he didn’t.” Cor was aware that he sounded annoyed, which probably wasn’t what Ignis needed right now. That was too damn bad. He hadn’t come all the way out here to get accused of a bunch of ridiculous bullshit. “I came on my own, and whether you believe that or not, you’re just going to have to get used to the idea that I’m here.”

Ignis went back to sewing up the wound in his arm. It took eight sutures, which were not as neat or as straight as they might have been, but which even Cor had to admit were not half bad for field surgery.

“Cut the thread,” Ignis said quietly. He held the needle patiently, while Cor crouched beside him and snapped the thread off with the blade of his penknife. Ignis flexed his arm experimentally, and then began to wrap a length of gauze around the cut.

Cor just watched him closely, almost admiring how steady his hand was though the whole ordeal. It couldn’t have been comfortable, but Ignis had taken it like a champ.

“I guess you were right,” Cor said at last, if only because it seemed like something Ignis would want to hear. “You pretty well have it handled. Sorry to step on your toes.”

“Are you hungry?” Ignis asked.

“I’m starving.”

Ignis stood up, retrieving a blanket to wrap around his shoulders, placing the box deliberately back in its place by the door. He stepped out momentarily onto the covered porch adjacent to the cabin, and when he returned he was carrying a pair of fish by the wire loops threaded through their gills.

The fish were frozen through. When Ignis set them on a board next to the stove, they made a heavy, solid sound. The fire was blazing now, and in the heat the fish rapidly began to defrost.

“There are places up here where the ice never thaws,” Ignis said. “Not since before the darkness. There’s fresh water underneath, though. So you cut a hole in the ice. But these creatures have lived their entire lives down there. They don’t know how to come up into the light.”

The fish were soft enough to cut now, and Ignis went to work on them, chopping off the heads and slicing them open so he could pull out the offal.

“You have to trick them into it,” he went on, his voice pitched low. Cor let him talk; he guessed by how rusty his voice sounded that it had been a while. “A handful of millet does the trick. You just chum the water, and in time they come. That’s when you spear them.”

Ignis filleted the fish with a practiced hand, then he placed the cuts in a pan on the stove. “There’s not much else; a little salt, perhaps. Sorry. I don’t cook much, really. It’s just me here, so there’s no sense going to a lot of trouble.”

Cor watched Ignis’ turned back closely, making note of the slow and deliberate way he moved, as if he were suspended underwater. He’d dragged his ass all the way out here, and was honestly baffled by what he had found; he had no idea how to talk to Ignis anymore, not the slightest clue what he might say to him.

“Do you ever miss it, Cor?” Ignis asked abruptly.

“Excuse me?”

“The Long Night. The scourge. Do you ever wish it was still dark like that?”

“No,” Cor said instantly. It wasn’t something you had to give a lot of thought to. “Hell no.”

“I do,” Ignis said in a low voice, without turning back to face him. “I thought I knew what kind of person I was. I was so sure. As long as I was with the king, I was his servant. Part of a whole; one cog in a well-oiled machine that ran smoothly upon the rails of destiny, performing the task that had been set for it.”

He flipped the fish with a practiced flourish. Cor knew it wasn’t what he was supposed to be thinking about right now, but whatever Ignis was doing smelled fucking phenomenal.

“Then the sun set and I was alone for the first time. It was easier than I thought, and I did well, didn’t I?”

“Sure,” Cor replied. “You did great.”

“So perhaps that is who I was all along. Someone more at home in the dark, far from the eyes of man, where I can’t hurt or disappoint anyone else.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Cor said. “You couldn’t hurt a fly. And no one is disappointed in you. The prince sure as hell isn’t.”

Ignis didn’t react much to the mention of Noctis, which honestly surprised Cor. He decided to try again, though he knew he was taking a risk. “Ravus isn’t either.”

That got a rise out of him. Though he still didn’t turn around, Ignis’ head snapped up. He almost upset the pan when he reached to take it off the stove. “He said that to you?”

“No,” Cor admitted, taking the plate of food that Ignis offered him. The fish was cooked beautifully: firm on the inside, with a seared crust. “I haven’t seen much of him.”

He hastened to add, "Not that I was doing much looking. I don’t know if you heard, but I’m basically retired now. I don’t go into the office unless I absolutely have to.”

“Are congratulations in order?” Ignis said coolly.

“Think you can cut me even a little slack, kid?” Cor replied, clearly unimpressed. “I did haul my bones over a glacier or two just to see you. It wasn’t easy, and my back isn’t what it used to be. The least you can do is listen to what I’m trying to tell you rather than just what you want to hear.”

Ignis didn’t reply. Cor figured that was the best he was going to get.

“Whatever happened between you and Ravus, it was good for ten years. Ten years, in the worst possible situation you can imagine. And you’re going to throw it away as soon as things actually start looking up?”

“I’m where I belong,” Ignis said.

“You’re punishing yourself for something.”

Ignis dropped his gaze. It was such an abrupt withdrawal that Cor knew he had hit upon a more profound truth than even he had expected.

“Do you think I haven’t seen it before?” he continued, going to great lengths to ensure that he his voice did not sound overly harsh. “So you did some shit to survive. You went places inside yourself that you never thought you could, that you didn’t even know were there to begin with. It’s done now. There’s no going back to how it was before. Only way out is forward.”

Ignis said nothing. He kept his gaze averted, not looking Cor in the face.

Cor sighed. He’d never been much for inspiring speeches, and he supposed that last one hadn’t been great. Much as he might try, he’d always been better, more comfortable, leading by example, though it didn’t seem like Ignis was going to be overly impressed by that anymore. Cor set the plate down and leaned over so he could touch Ignis’ shoulder. It was hard, immobile, like a figure carved out of granite.

“You need to come home,” he said.

“I can’t.”

“Kid, you are seriously getting on my last nerve here--” Cor started to say, but Ignis cut him off.

“There’s still something I need to do here. As soon as it’s finished, I’ll come back. I need to ask for your help, though. I’m sorry.”

It came out all at once, in a kind of breathless gasp, as if Ignis had held the words in as long as he could before he spoke them.

“I found it at last,” he continued, in that same half-gasping voice. “The tomb in the mountains. But there's something in there; it’s a well of darkness. I can’t get in on my own. You’ll help me; you have to. I must see it for myself.”

Cor was quiet for a beat, trying to plan his next move. There were a thousand things he might have asked, not the least of which was why Ignis seemed so determined to act so damn crazy all of a sudden. He kept that to himself, though, saying only, “A tomb. All right, where?”

“Nearby,” Ignis replied. “If we leave in the morning we can make it before the sun goes down.”

“I thought I told you I was retired.”

Ignis glanced up at him through the fringe of his long hair. His lips did not smile but his voice, hesitantly, did. “So you will come?”

“I’ll come,” Cor said.

Retired or not, you could do a hell of a lot worse than a tomb full of monsters. Down in the dark, in a place like that, at least you could always be sure of your next move.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was gone a long time, but I'm back with a long chapter to make up for it.

The next morning, Ignis woke them long before the sun rose. He started the fire and brewed a pot of bitter tea. It wasn’t much, but it warmed him for the journey ahead.

Cor didn’t say much as they put on their boots and heavy coats, checking and strapping on their weapons. Ignis kept stealing glances at him from beneath his lashes but he couldn’t get much out of his expression. No doubt he burned with questions about the tomb, questions that had circled around his mind all night as he slept, but he had intuited that he could not ask outright. 

Ignis opened the door. The sharpness of the wind hit them immediately, and they both moved quickly outside in defiance of the bitter cold. Cor went on ahead while Ignis remained behind, closing the door, locking up, resetting the traps and alarms. It was mere ceremony. Whether they managed to make it through to the tomb or not, neither of them would be coming back here.

Once the cabin was secure, Ignis hurried to catch up. They walked for a long time in tense silence, heading north as the sun rose, beginning its low, sluggish arc across the sky. Eventually, they came upon a wide open space, a field of snow, flat and glittering, unmarked by so much as a single track. 

Ignis’ grip had relaxed on his spear, and when he glanced over at Cor he saw that he too had let his guard down, his hand no longer poised on the hilt of his katana.

The Marshal caught his sidelong glance. “Wish I could say this reminds me of the old days. I guess I’d be lying, though. I didn’t really know you back then.”

“You didn’t,” Ignis said. “But that’s why it’s all right that you’re here.”

“Because I’m not really your friend?”

“You’re backing me up,” Ignis said without looking at him. “That’s more important.”

“I don’t know about that. Would it kill you to have a friend right about now?”

Ignis didn’t answer, telling himself that Cor would assume the wind had drowned out his words. The Marshal may have affected a knowing and sympathetic understanding, but Ignis was relieved to discover that he actually had a rather poor grasp of the situation. He could not, of course, fault Cor for that; he knew that, until recently, he’d had his own share of delusions and comforting, willful misapprehensions.

He’d taken it for granted that they were all friends. The prince and his companions. Thick as thieves, closer than brothers. Then the Long Night had revealed the truth: Noctis had been the only thing keeping them together. Without him, they had drifted apart like celestial bodies that had lost their star.

That was why Cor had come alone. Not because he was braver, kinder, more concerned; but rather because he had been the last one to realize how much everything had changed, how little they had all profited from it in the end.

They hiked in silence though the day, and in the afternoon they came to a deep ravine that split the snowfields in two. Before they began the final descent, Cor crouched down in the shelter of a thicket of dead, snow-laden trees to catch his breath.

After a time, Ignis went over to join him, leaning on his spear. It did feel good to be out of the wind for a moment.

“What’s really down there?” Cor said. “What’s so important?”

“Why do you want to know so suddenly?” Ignis said.

“Just making conversation.” Cor stood up, dusting his hands on his trousers. “I guess I’ll find out soon enough. Let’s get moving.”

Ignis could tell that he was trying Cor’s patience, but he wasn’t sure what he could say by way of explanation. He had no idea what was waiting for him under the ice, much less what he was supposed to do with it. All he could do was hope that, somehow, he’d know his duty when the moment came.

At the edge of the ravine, Ignis slipped out of his fur parka and left his spear plunged into the snow. It would only get in the way climbing down, and there wasn’t going to be much room to swing it once they reached the cave in the ice. Carefully, he lowered himself over the edge, testing the ice with his boots until they found purchase.

He was aware that Cor was scowling as he watched him descend. As soon as Ignis had put some distance between them, he slipped over the lip of the ravine after him. His boot knocked a dusting of snow out of one of the cracks in the ice, and it showered down on Ignis like a rain of tiny crystals.

The entrance to the tomb was fifty yards below them, a break in the ice that had been twisted out of shape by the movement of the glacier over centuries. Ignis had been far enough inside to know that it was passable now, though it probably hadn’t always been.

Cor dropped to the snowy ridge beside him. He regarded the narrow crack in the ice with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “You sure about this?”

“It opens up into a chamber about thirty feet in,” Ignis said. “I haven’t been much beyond there, though. There was something else in there with me. I don’t know exactly what, but I sensed it watching me. I could feel its hunger, and its rage.”

“You’re not exactly making a great case for yourself.”

Ignis turned to face him. Behind the frayed hem of his scarf, his eyes burned. “The longer I stay here, the harder it is to remember why I came in the first place. I’m going in there, now. And I’m not leaving until I find the truth. Come if you want to, or don’t. I’m not afraid; I always knew that it would be something I would have to face alone.”

Cor listened quietly, his expression impassive while Ignis got it all out. It was clearly not lost on him that it was the most Ignis had said at a stretch since he’d found him. When it looked like he was through, Cor replied simply, “Glad to hear it. Let’s go.”

Ignis knew that the Marshal had been testing him, and that, by whatever antiquated and esoteric criteria the man used for such things, he had passed. There had been a time when he would have considered that alone a victory, to have earned the approval of the great Immortal. He wished that it could still be that simple, that he could still measure his worth by the precision with which he performed his duty to others, but ever since coming out here on the ice, he had fought only for himself.

He could not predict how long it would last once he returned to Insomnia and was again under the inexplicably disapproving eye of the prince. 

For the moment, at least, he knew that he must not think about Noctis, about home, about any of it, and so he was careful to make his mind as cold and blank as the snowfields they had crossed to get here when he flattened himself down on hands and knees so he could squeeze through the crack in the ice.

The walls of the passage were uneven, fractured from years of shifting ice and earth. At points, Ignis had to go down on his stomach to proceed, twisting his body almost sideways to fit his shoulders through the gap. The light dropped off quickly, and in the darkness he could hear the ice sighing and groaning on all sides of him. It was as if he had been completely swallowed up by some dark, inscrutable being.

Ignis was aware that his heart was beating fast, that he could feel his own breath on his face, trapped there by the close confines. It was Cor’s first time through, and he had no idea how well the older man was handling it. He opened his mouth to call back some words of encouragement, but his voice wouldn’t come. His ribs felt compressed, his throat tight, his mouth choked by a darkness that seemed to press into it.

At last, he pushed through the narrow passage and the cave began to open up. He lifted himself slowly to his knees, well aware by this point of what it felt like to straighten up too quickly into a low-hanging ceiling with several hundred tons of glacier atop it. When he had finally felt his way to his feet, he stretched out his hand to the right until it came in contact with a smooth, cold, curved surface.

He held his hand against the strangely frictionless globe until it began to grow warm to the touch. Blue runes glowed faintly to life, flickering sluggishly a few times before finally catching. The spirit lantern caught: a blue, translucent ball lit from within by ethereal fire.

The glow spread along the thread connecting it to the other lanterns until they too began to brighten, completing the circuit and returning light to the chamber. Only when Ignis was sure that the old magic still worked did he turn back to check on Cor.

He was still making slow, steady progress through the shaft, pushing his katana ahead of him. Ignis took the weapon from him, setting it carefully aside, and then reaching back to help Cor through.

“Shit,” Cor said as he at last pushed to his knees. “I’m glad that’s over.”

“We have to do it again on the way out,” Ignis reminded him. As Cor started to step forward, Ignis set a hand on his chest to stop him. “Give your eyes a moment to adjust. It can be shocking the first time you see it.”

“I don’t know what could possibly be worse than squeezing my entire body through a mountain’s icy asshole--” 

Cor stopped abruptly. His eyes had found a spot just beyond Ignis’ left shoulder and he was staring at it in open-mouthed and disbelieving disgust.

A massive chandelier of human bones was suspended from the vaulted ceiling: femurs and tibia and vertebrae woven together into twisted, branching arms that cast fearsome shadows over the roof of the cave. The walls were studded with skulls, some of which had been inlaid with gold or had precious stones inserted into the eye sockets.

“What the fuck?” Cor said, his voice little more than a whisper.

Ignis sighed. “It’s an ossuary. I think it was for the devotees of the Cult of Shiva. Come, I’ll show you.”

Though Cor wasn’t thrilled by the suggestion, he allowed Ignis to lead him over to one of the cave walls. The ice was scored with dozen of square holes stretching back into the dark. 

“They interred the remains here,” Ignis said. He reached up and shifted one of the spirit lanterns so the light illuminated the depths of one of the cubicula. Inside there was a heap of old bones, wrapped in a tattered blue shroud. Ignis reached inside, feeling around in the dust, until he retrieved a small silver idol of the Goddess.

“Look.” He showed the idol to Cor, who didn’t seem nearly as intrigued as Ignis had thought he would. Abashed, he returned the idol to its resting place. His natural curiosity had briefly stirred back to life, only to be abruptly squashed by the realization that Cor had a massive case of the creeps.

“These bones were laid to rest with honor and ceremony,” Ignis went on. “But look over here.”

He took Cor deeper into the chamber, stepping lightly over the bones that littered the floor of the cave. In the center of the room, almost directly under the massive chandelier, several nearly-intact skeletons had been laid out, still partially covered in decaying rags. Ignis crouched down beside one, carefully lifting a scrap of dusty leather from within one of the piles of its broken and collapsed chest cavities.

“Black armor,” he explained. “These three men were of the Crownsguard. Their weapons are all sheathed. I think they drank poison.”

“What about this one?” Cor was pointing at the fourth skeleton with the toe of his boot, leaving a good deal of distance between himself and the corpse, just in case it chose that exact moment to come back to life. “It’s different, right?”

Ignis hesitated momentarily, but eventually he shifted over to the remaining skeleton. This one was set a little apart from the soldiers, covered in a tattered blue veil that still glittered weakly with the crystals that had been sewn into the fabric. With a hand that trembled only slightly, Ignis lifted the ragged edge of the shroud away, revealing a naked skull with the lower jaw hinged open in a silent scream.

The corpse’s arms were loose at its side, completely intact down to the tiny phalanges at the ends of the fingers. The skeleton was unmarked, unblemished, save for a scar on the underside of the bottom rib on the right side. Inside the hollow cage of its ribs, a dagger lay on the stone floor where it had landed when the flesh had fallen away from around it.

“I don’t know,” Ignis said quietly, as he quickly pulled the shroud back up and over the body. “I just know this isn’t what I’m looking for. It’s nearby, though.”

He started to get to his feet, but Cor stopped him. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, and then crouched down next to the skeletons.

“You said they weren’t buried, right?” Cor asked. “They just died here?”

“I think so.”

“Then it’s not right to leave them. We can’t get all these bones back up the side of the ravine, but we can’t just do nothing.” Though it was clearly costing him something in the coin of distaste, he snatched up one of the smaller bones off each of the piles, tucking them into his pocket. “We’ll get them somewhere the ground isn’t frozen solid. Say a few words. I’ll feel a hell of a lot better about this, at least.”

“Yes, Marshal.” Ignis got to his feet, keeping his eyes downcast. “Thank you.”

It was time to move on. Ignis followed the spirit lanterns around the chamber until they disappeared into another narrow passage in the rock. As he drew near, he was overcome with the same sinking feeling that had gripped him on earlier expeditions down here. 

He could feel something watching him with the unblinking eyes of a predator. It made his stomach knot up tight as a familiar black flower bloomed deep inside him. A seed that had taken root long ago, stirring from hibernation as it sensed its likeness. As he drew close to the gap in the rock, he could hear a soft, rhythmic sound, like some ancient slumbering beast.

Cor kept pace behind him. Ignis did not ask him if he felt the same implacable dread; he knew it wouldn’t change anything, and so he didn’t want to know.

He had to stoop low to get through the passage, but it wasn’t nearly as tight a fit as the entrance to the cave. There was a faint light down at the end, more spirit lanterns illuminating the next chamber.

Ignis pushed through into a second massive subterranean vault, many times the size of the first. There were no burial chambers cut into the walls here, only massive sheets of flowstone that rippled down from the ceiling high above them. As Ignis stepped further into the chamber, the lanterns flickered to life ahead of him.

All at once, he became aware of a dark shadow looming over him. Misshapen black wings arching across the massive cathedral ceiling, poised to take flight.

Ignis’ heart went into his throat, and he braced himself against the downdraft those massive wings would create as they beat down on him.

The downdraft never came; the wings remained spread, the creature eternally poised on the cusp of flight. It was only a statue, mounted on the opposite wall astride two of the swelling deposits of flowstone: A massive idol of Ifrit, bending forward over the chamber at an impossible angle. It was painted solid black, as if fashioned from volcanic glass, save for two massive blood-red garnets set in the sockets of its eyes.

Cor stopped at Ignis’ side and gave a low whistle. “What’s that doing in Shiva’s private boneyard? Did someone not get the branding guide?”

“I have no idea,” Ignis said. “I’ve never been this far.”

He could not tear his eyes away from the statue’s massive face. The feeling of dread had not abated, but Ignis scarcely felt it anymore. He took a slow step forward and the glittering jeweled eyes of the idol seemed to track him. Ifrit’s expression was neutral, almost peaceful, but there was nothing comforting about it.

“Kid?” he heard Cor say. He seemed far away now, his voice an echo of an echo. It was easy to ignore as Ignis continued forward, the cold, black flower in his chest winding its many vines and roots around his ribs.

His gaze was directed upward, and so Ignis did not see the pool of liquid in the center of the chamber floor until it was already sloshing over the toe of his boots. He paused then, crouching down to examine it more closely. 

It was bitterly cold in the cave, well below zero, and any water should have been frozen solid. This, however, did not seem to be ordinary water. It was black and still, unbroken by so much as a single ripple. When Ignis dipped his fingertips in it, it had the oily, viscous consistency of glycerol.

“You’d better get away from there,” Cor said. 

Ignis glanced back at him long enough to see that Cor now had his hand on the hilt of his sword. It struck him as odd; for the first time since he had arrived, Ignis felt that there was nothing at all to fear.

“Come look at this,” he said, turning back to the strange, black pool, facing his reflection in the smooth surface. It had been a long time since Ignis had seen his own face, and for a moment he indulged in a bit of latent vanity, admiring his still-smooth cheeks and brow, his features that remained largely unmarred despite the passage of time.

But something was wrong. Something was not as he remembered. Ignis turned his head slowly, first to the right, then to the left, watching the reflection carefully to see if he could find where and how and by what degree he had changed.

It came to him all at once. The problem was not with his reflection. It was in the lack of reflection of anything else. Within the depths of the black pool there was only his perfect twin, not any of the other features of the cave, or even the glowing lights of the spirit lanterns suspended high overhead.

Ignis tried to jerk his fingers back out of the pool, but to his horror he found that they were stuck fast.

“Marshal--!” he called out, but he didn’t get a chance to say anything else. His mirror image reached for him, its hand emerging momentarily from the pool coated in a thick black oil. It seized him around the wrist, and before Ignis could fight or protest, jerked him forward with an uncanny strength.

The pool was only an inch deep if that, and so Ignis automatically braced himself for an impact with the stone floor, but when he hit the water it parted around him.

He went in over his head, feeling a sudden shock of cold that made his chest tighten. Completely submerged in the icy water, Ignis struggled to right himself, to kick towards a faint, grayish light high above him. Frantic, he struggled toward the surface, his lungs burning and his frozen limbs heavy and clumsy.

The light grew brighter as he swam upwards, until it seemed he could almost see the shapes of the cave formations above him. He had just enough time to think that with the next stroke he would break the surface, when he ran up against a solid wall of ice.

Panic obliterated every semblance of rational thought. Ignis pounded his numb fists against the underside of the ice, scratched it with his frozen fingers. Every blow, every sound, echoed around him, distorted by the press of the dark water.

It felt like years, filled with nothing but blind terror and despair. Trapped in the darkness, on the wrong side of the ice, with life and warmth and breath just a few inches away. It was probably just a few seconds, but it might as well have been an eternity before his lungs gave out and his lips separated in a final, silent scream of horror.

He felt the darkness rush into him, invading his most intimate and private self. Filling him completely, as he sank for the final time down into the lonely depths.


	25. Chapter 25

Ignis awoke with a scream caught in his mouth, his hands clawing at his burning throat. Already his mind was lurching ahead, taking account of the sheen of cold sweat drying on his brow, the silk sheets twisted around his naked legs. The fact that he was safe here, regardless of how unwilling his frantic body was to accept that.

No matter how his lungs still ached, how his extremities still throbbed with the memory of icy water, that was the illusion and this the truth. 

He willed himself to believe it, to feel it in his bones, but he could not stop his heart from hammering in his chest, nor halt the hot tears slipping from the corners of his eyes. The dream was still lodged in his mind like a thorn. He couldn’t tear it loose, and so he was caught between illusion and reality, unable to orient himself fully in either.

Then there was a hand on his shoulder, clumsily stroking it, drawing him close.

“Bad dreams, my hawk?” said a voice still slightly muffled by sleep. Ignis tensed, but he could not pull away. He turned into the embrace, tilting his face up.

At first, he didn’t recognize the man beside him. He was young and handsome, his face unlined by worry or time. The blazing red hair gave him away, longer than Ignis remembered it, loose and uncombed around his bare shoulders.

It was Ardyn.

Years younger than when Ignis had last seen him, perhaps younger now than Ignis himself had been when he first laid eyes on the man. Ardyn was watching him without malice or calculating cruelty; with nothing but gentle and tired-eyed concern, as he stroked the backs of his fingers over Ignis’ cheek.

His skin did not crawl at the touch, and his stomach did not tighten as he had expected. He tilted his face against Ardyn’s trailing fingers, squeezing his eyes closed.

“I’m sorry,” he heard himself say quietly. “I did not mean to wake you.”

He couldn’t say whether it was another voice coming out of his mouth, or if he was no longer himself at all, but was instead watching all transpire through someone else’s eyes. Neither seemed quite right; there was no disconnect between what he saw of Ardyn now and what he had once experienced at this man’s hands. 

It was as if the past and the future had lapped over each other and become one. He was Valia and he was Ignis. Ardyn was free of sin and he was guilty beyond measure. Both were possible; both were true.

“I don’t need much sleep.” Ardyn was looking down at him fondly; he tipped Ignis’ chin back so he could look meet his eyes. “It pains me to see you like this, Valia.”

“It must,” Ignis replied with a rueful smile. “You only call me by my name when you are serious indeed.”

“That’s not true.”

“I am your hawk when you are fond of me. Your dove when you are amorous. Sometimes your heart, when you are particularly indulgent. I am your darling and your dearest. But almost never Valia, not from you.”

“I had no idea,” Ardyn said. “That’s not what troubles you, is it?”

“No. It just makes me wonder who you really want me to be. I don’t have any attachment to that name, that life. Do you want me to be someone else? For you, I could try. I could leave all that shame behind--”

“Valia.” Ardyn’s voice was sharp and clear. Ignis looked up at him, startled, and Ardyn bent his head and pressed their mouths together. It was an earnest, artless, messy kiss, and it ignited a fire in Ignis’ heart. A heart he knew was no longer his own.

When he pulled way, Ignis was left trembling. Hesitantly, he touched two fingers to his lips. “My lord?”

“I’m not good at this,” Ardyn said.

“It’s all right,” Ignis told him. “I feel better now. I can go back to sleep.”

“No,” Ardyn said. “I need you to know. I need to tell you this, even if I’m sure I’ll say precisely the wrong thing.”

He stroked his hand over Ignis’ temple, lifting his hair off his forehead and smoothing it back. His palms were broad and blunt, so rough with calluses that they burned on Ignis’ skin. He was reminded momentarily of Ravus’ elegant hand, his long delicate fingers that always seemed slightly chilled to the touch. Then he braced himself against the stab of pain that he expected would accompany the memory, but it never came. Valia shielded him from it; keeping him far from any such grief or regret.

“From the moment I saw you,” Ardyn was saying now, “I knew that your life hadn’t been easy. The truth was like a brand upon your brow. My first thought was that we all suffer, and we all endure it alone. You must be no different.

His gaze was averted, avoiding Valia’s eyes as if ashamed. All through it, he kept speaking, the words still halting and fumbling but coming more quickly now. “It was at that instant when you looked right at me, and I saw that you still hoped. Somehow, it moved me. Even then, I never meant to keep you with me. I thought that perhaps I would teach you to be a page, give you to one of my lieutenants as soon as the chance presented itself. And yet, here we are.”

Ignis found himself studying Ardyn’s turned face closely, entranced by the thrust of his jaw, the slant of his cheekbones. As an older man, he’d been handsome enough, objectively speaking, though always with a hint of something dark and unsettling lurking just beneath the surface of his good looks. But looking at him now, Ignis could not shake the feeling that, before he had been tainted by the scourge, he had been something else, something more. He might even have been beautiful.

All at once, Ardyn’s chin snapped up and he looked Ignis in the face. His eyes were neither light nor dark, but their color was burning. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it. But you know I love you, don’t you? You must know.”

Ignis felt strangely calm, though his hands were trembling. He twisted them in the edges of the scattered bedding to hide it. 

“I didn’t,” he heard Valia say in his voice. “I didn’t know that.”

Ardyn’s shoulders fell. He reached out and cupped Ignis’ chin between his hands as if it were something delicate and precious, and he kissed his mouth gently. “I love all of you. I want all of you. Even your past, even if it is shameful or painful. I don’t care, and neither should you. You’re with me now, and I’ll never let anything hurt you.”

“Can you swear to that?” Ignis asked quietly.

“Yes, I can. I will. I might have the world one day, but it would be a hollow victory if it did not have you in it.”

Ignis had no idea what to say or how to react. He could no longer feel the line of demarcation that separated his own conscious in the present from Valia’s in the past, and he wondered if they had not become one in the same at last. Or, more terrifying still, Valia’s spirit had flown, leaving him to face the enormous absurdity of Ardyn’s confession on his own.

And yet, as he took in the serious and humbled expression on Ardyn’s face, his downcast eyes and the crimsoning of his cheeks beneath the fringe of his red lashes, Ignis felt himself softening.

“I love you too,” he said in a voice that was not quite his own.

“Don’t say such things unless you mean them.”

“Then I was hasty,” Ignis said. “I’m sorry. I never anticipated I would be here. I’ll give the matter some thought. Until then, don’t worry. I’m precisely where I want to be.”

Ardyn still looked stricken. He was almost pitiful like that, with his wild ambitious eyes and patchwork of scars, cowed into meek obedience by the violence of his emotions. Ignis reached out and took a fistful of red hair, twisting it curiously around his fingers.

“My beautiful Ifrit,” he said. Ardyn stole a glance up at him through his lashes, and Ignis felt himself smile slyly. “You know you’re not the only one with pet names.”

He leaned in close as Ardyn raised his head, meeting his lips for a kiss. A soft moan vibrated up and into his mouth as he licked past Ardyn’s lips. He tasted crisp and bright, a clean fire that burned so hot and fast it produced no ash. Ignis took Ardyn’s lower lip between his teeth, biting down just hard enough to give him a taste of the pain he liked along with his pleasure.

Ardyn took him by the waist, so narrow that he could almost span it with his hands, and twisted them around so that Ignis was kneeling astride his lap. 

He felt that he knew this body well, intimately. The lean hips, solid thighs, the intricate network of muscle mapped across his chest and abdomen. There was little of the lingering fear that Ignis once felt at the sight of the man. In its place was Valia’s awe and adoration. He felt safe here, content. 

Ignis could not remember if he had ever felt the same. It didn’t seem likely. He might have come closest in those few stolen days with Ravus before they had returned to the capital. They hadn’t gotten there, though. It had been too uncertain, too new; they had not been able to relax into each other’s company.

He regretted it bitterly now, though he had not thought of Ravus in a long time.

Ardyn’s hands had come to rest on his hips, his thumbs tracing the sharp bones of his pelvis. “You seem so pensive. What are you thinking about?”

“Only about how much I like the view from up here,” Ignis said, aware that his voice had taken on a hoarse edge that made him feel self-conscious but that Valia seemed to enjoy. He took Ardyn’s wrists, one in each hand, and guided them back, pinning them to the mattress.

Ardyn’s red eyebrows peaked; his sculpted lips relaxed into a smile. “What’s this?”

“Just relax,” Ignis said. He unknotted the light silk robe draped around him, letting it slide off first one shoulder, then the other. Aware of Ardyn’s eyes locked on him, entranced by the slow uncovering of skin.

He dropped the robe of the edge of the bed. Ignis had never felt irresistible before, but in that moment, with Ardyn’s hungry gaze on him, with his fists tangled in the sheets, resting obediently right where Ignis had left them, he thought that he must be. Just as the Lady Goddess had been at her most divine in the instant that she bowed to mortal temptation and embraced Ifrit: her mirror, her inverse.

Leaning over Ardyn’s prone body, Ignis retrieved a vial of oil from beside the bed. Valia knew where it was, and he found it without looking, without ever taking his eyes from Ardyn’s face. As he straightened up again, he dragged his hands down Ardyn’s naked chest, following the trail of red curls that dusted his abdomen, disappearing into the low-slung silk trousers he wore for bed.

“I like watching you up there,” Ardyn said with amusement in his voice.

“How fortunate,” Ignis replied, tugging Ardyn’s trousers off and freeing his impressive cock. “I like it up here.”

Half-hard already, it only took a few deft strokes of Ignis’ slick palm to make him fully erect. He’d never actually seen it before, and he had to admit, grudgingly, that the warlord wielded an impressive saber indeed.

Unable to escape it, powerless to do anything but follow the indelible lines that Valia had boldly carved upon the past all those centuries ago, Ignis knelt up and then lowered himself back onto Ardyn’s waiting cock.

He moaned low in his throat as he took the member in deep, all the way to the hilt. Ardyn gasped, his hands fluttering to Ignis’ hips to brace him as he began to move. With his palms flat again Ardyn’s chest, he was helpless to tear his eyes away from his terrible, handsome face.

The past and present flowed together until one could no longer be separated from the other. The part of him with Valia’s memories was here in bed with Ardyn, while the part that was Ignis was a thousand years in the future, hunched over in the backseat of a car with Ravus while the windows steamed up around him. 

There were other lives, too: A young wife and two sons and the stately remains of a ruined villa in the provinces, the great capital city only a dream that had never been realized. A stolen kiss with the prince out behind the barracks where they trained. His sight taken from him, his sight restored. A secret haven in the deepest wilderness where he lived even after the Long Night was over, never coming in from the cold.

Those were existences that had not come to pass, but in that moment Ignis felt how close he might have come to them. Things could have been different, that was what Valia wanted him to know. 

Across all the years and all the miles, all the obstacles that separated them, Valia had found him. He had chosen to show Ignis this, so that he might know that even Ardyn, for all the terror and mayhem he had wrought, could have been different too.

The hands around his waist tightened suddenly, dragging Ignis close. Pulling their hips together hard, hard, and gasping his name like an ecstatic chant: “Valia. Valia. Valia.”

Ignis squeezed his eyes shut and leaned into it, but as he did he heard a small sound far off in the darkness. 

“Ignis. _Ignis_.”

The sound of his own name, very faint and far away, but quickly becoming impossible to ignore. The voice doubled over Ardyn’s, and then subsumed it completely. Before Ignis realized it was happening, the concrete memory had taken on the intangible quality of a dream. Ardyn faded away, and when Ignis opened his eyes next he was laying on the bare ice, staring up at the massive stone face of Ifrit high above him.

“Ignis!” Cor said again. When he realized that Ignis was moving, he let out a sigh of relief. “Shit kid, I thought I was going to have to hike back through the corpse room alone.”

“What happened?” Ignis sat up, shaking his head to clear it. There were frozen trails of moisture on his cheeks, which Cor was doing him the favor of ignoring.

“You keeled over,” Cor said. “You were looking up at that idol up there like it was one of those naked lady statues in the museum, and then you just went down. I've been trying to wake you up.”

“Thank you for staying with me.” Ignis was aware that his voice sounded calm, almost detached. He did not look at Cor, but he did reach over and pat his shoulder as he got to his feet.

The pool of black liquid in the center of the room had vanished, and what remained in its absence was an unbroken stretch of clean, shimmering glacial ice. Ignis stepped forward as if in a trance. 

Cor didn’t ask him where he was going. If he had, Ignis could not have told him. He only knew when he found it: a section of wall at the base of the statue that had been patched imperfectly with mortar.

It was a door, Ignis realized as he drew closer, one long since covered over and sealed shut. Lonely centuries had passed down here, and the mortar wall had begun to crumble and decay. When Ignis touched it, the stone turned to dust in his hand. 

Though the surface had been worn down, Ignis could still see the faint marks of ancient runes carved into the seal. Most were faded beyond recognition, but what he could make out seemed to be the same words, repeated over and over again.

_Keep him, for all time._


	26. Chapter 26

Confronted by the sealed door, Ignis’s determined forward momentum was momentarily stalled. He hadn’t expected to find the tomb closed, but he also hadn’t come this far to be turned away by some ancient mortar. He’d left his spear up on the glacier, but he still had his daggers. Drawing them now, he lifted them back and brought the blades down hard on the door. 

The plaster cracked, showering dust down on the ice. Ignis pulled the daggers back and drove them in again. He felt the impact all the way up his arms but he kept chipping away at the mortar. In time, he’d carved a crater in it that was deep enough that he could see the shine of metal on the other side.

“It’s here,” Ignis said.

“Still not quite sure what _it_ is exactly,” Cor reminded him as Ignis plunged his daggers in with a renewed mania. He watched calmly until Ignis had cleared away enough of the mortar to reveal a glimmering door set into the ice. Unlike the seal which had been erected hastily, the door was a marvel of art and engineering.

It was made of solid gold. The surface was carved with an ornate pattern of flowers and creeping vines, wound and tangled around the weapons of war. A battered helm, a spear with a broken shaft, a sword with a bent and twisted blade; all were caught up in the dozens of twisting tendrils, as perfect and exact in detail as they had been on the day they were carved, all those centuries ago.

There was an elliptical cartouche in the center of the door, framed by the floral motif. Ignis didn’t recognize the runes that made up the name enclosed in it, but he hadn’t expected that he would. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to ensure that this place was not only lost, but forgotten by time.

As he uncovered more, Ignis could see that the golden door was twisted away from the frame at one side. No amount of fine craftsmanship could stand up to a millenia under the ice.

“Give it a rest, kid,” Cor said. “I’ll take it from here.”

Ignis tensed minutely at the sound of Cor’s voice, but he did reluctantly move aside. His shoulders throbbed from the repeated impacts, and his palms were rubbed raw from the rough hilts of his daggers. He’d come here determined to do this alone, but there was still a part of him that remembered what it was to rely on someone else.

He stepped aside, saying quietly, “Forgive me, Marshal.”

Cor shrugged. “I’m not going to say that you don’t have anything to apologize for, but you can save it for right now. If it was worth going to all this trouble, then whatever is in there is important. We’ll get it taken care of.”

“It is important,” Ignis replied. “But you never asked for this. I think it’s something you’re better off not knowing.”

“I’m sure I can handle it.” Cor slipped his katana from the loop at his belt and jammed one end of the sheathe into the gap between the door and the wall. The malleable gold bent away from the frame with only the slightest pressure, opening the gap enough to slip through.

He moved, giving Ignis room to pass. Getting down once more on his hands and knees, Ignis squeezed through the opening.

Instantly, he was engulfed in darkness. As he straightened up, Ignis glanced back to the entrance he had just passed through. He could see the blue glow from the spirit lamps outside, but the light did not seem to penetrate into the tomb. The darkness within was absolute; it settled on his skin like ash and pressed against his lips as if seeking entry.

Ignis drew his daggers and murmured a spell over them, enchanting the blades. Fire sprang from them, washing the interior of the tomb in flickering light. He was in a small chamber carved out of the mountain. The walls were lined with granite panels, and high above a vaulted ceiling disappeared into the shadows. In every corner, Ignis could see the faint glimmer of gold and silver, tarnished and faded by layers of ancient dust.

By then, Cor had wedged himself through the hole and into the tomb. Ignis passed one of the daggers to him to use as a torch. When it looked like Cor had oriented himself, Ignis knelt to explore some of the items clustered in the corners. It was a haphazard heap of grave goods: household furniture, clothing, amphora filled with wine and honey. All a person would need for the journey to the afterlife, and yet there was something about the way they had been arranged that struck Ignis as wrong. Items were piled together without sense or reason, as if all those beautiful things had been buried without ceremony. Following the form of the ritual, without any of the faith that doing so would lead the soul to peace.

Wood and cloth had mostly rotted away, but many of the items were remarkably well-preserved. Ignis could not help but feel a stirring of the old wonder as he cleaned some of the dust away with his sleeve. This was an unprecedented archaeological discovery. A tomb from the First Dynasty, suspended in time the day it had been sealed. There had never been a find like this one, and for a moment Ignis felt something akin to the secret thrill he used to get at the promise of learning something new. The world was still a mysterious place, full of undiscovered promise.

“Come look at this,” he heard Cor say from somewhere behind him. Holding his torch out in front of him to drive back the oppressive darkness, Ignis retraced his steps to find Cor by the door of the tomb.

The inside of the great golden door also bore an intricate carving, the inverse of the one on the exterior of the tomb. It depicted another flowering rose bush, but this one had been cut back almost to the roots. The flowers lay in wilting heaps around the base of the tree, hacked to pieces by spear and sword. Love’s victory had only been a temporary one; in the end, death had dealt the final, decisive blow.

Unlike the carving on the outside, this image had been badly damage. The wings of the door were dented, and there were long vertical scratches scarring the gold. The insides of the welts were stained with a black residue, packed so thickly in places that it had spilled out over the metal in a spiderweb pattern.

“Looks like something was trying to get out,” Cor said. “A demon, I’d say. It put up a hell of a fight.”

“This is a tomb for a man,” Ignis replied. He licked his lips, realizing that they tasted faintly of earth. A sickening knot begin to form in his stomach. “How is that possible?” 

Cor didn’t answer. He had found a white fleck wedged into one of the cracks, which he carefully worked free until it rested in the center of his palm. Ignis leaned over it, angling his torch so they could both see. There was a small, translucent wafer cupped in his hand, milky white in color but rimmed in black rust.

It was a fingernail. Ripped free at the root by someone trapped on this side of the seal, hopelessly clawing to get out. 

“Shit,” Cor said, dropping the nail to the stone floor as if it had suddenly grown too hot to hold and discreetly wiped his hand on his coat. Ignis didn’t see it fall; he had become suddenly lightheaded. He forced himself to rally and set his hand on the inside of the door. 

The long, desperate scratches crossed it in all directions like a map of despair. Ignis followed the lines downward, watching them become more shallow the closer to the ground they got, as whoever had scratched them grew weaker, weaker. They finally terminated near the floor of the tomb, where a pool of dried blood stained the stones black.

That blood was all that remained of the person who had been trapped in here, and yet Ignis knew it was not because he had walked away. The tomb had been sealed from the outside, and there were no other exits. 

There was no leaving this place, but there was a trail of disturbed dust on the floor. Every surface was coated in the same thick gray patina of dirt, save for a halo of naked stone around the base of the door and a path leading deeper inside.

Ignis did not hesitate before following it, back into the twisted shafts that made up the tomb. The darkness pressed in from all sides, and as Ignis went further the light of his torch seemed to scarcely penetrate it. He had to make his way slowly, mindful of gaps in the ancient stone, the branching corridors that led off into smaller chambers, dead ends heaped high with meaningless treasure.

He could only imagine what it must have been like for whoever had been trapped down here. Already weak from hunger and exhaustion and terror, feeling his way through the darkness dragging himself on broken and bloodied hands.

Ignis tracked him into the heart of the tomb, where the long corridor opened up into a burial chamber. It was a massive cave, at least twenty feet high, the walls and ceiling studded with huge bluish-white crystal formations, like swords carved out of ice.

Unlike the other rooms he had passed through, this one had braziers near the entrance. Ignis lit them, and the huge crystals acted like mirrors, amplifying the light until the entire room was illuminated with a diffuse blue glow. 

In the center of the chamber was a colossal gold sarcophagus, inlaid with lapis and garnet. It stood upright, the lid still sealed, covered with thousands of runes written in delicate, flowing script. Prayers for the dead, all of them. 

The trail ended at the base of the sarcophagus. Without a torch to light the braziers, it would have been dark back here. He had found his final destination by touch, and then he had stopped. Perhaps he had collapsed from exhaustion, or laid himself out in preparation for the end. Either way, the great warlord, the prince of the realm, had made his way here in his last moments, when he knew beyond fear or hope that he would die.

Ignis knelt at the foot of the sarcophagus, tracing the ancient bloodstains that marked the stones. He could see it all; it wasn’t just his imagination.

Ardyn with his arms draped around the sarcophagus, his cheek pressed against the cold metal. It was not the first time he’d been here. In the weeks following Valia’s death, he had stood vigil day and night, waiting for some sign. For a final glimpse of Valia’s spirit, evidence that he had kept his promise. Proof that he was still out there, waiting.

He returned to the palace with nothing, save the certainty that all would soon reach its natural and appointed end. Then his brother had interred him here, buried him alive with all the other shameful secrets that he had wanted to forget. He had founded a dynasty on the broad, strong back of a bloodless surgical coup. Before a new world could come, all the relics of the old had to buried beneath the ice, hidden for all time. That was what Ardyn thought as he lay there in the darkness, his face against the sarcophagus, willing the cold to sink into his bones, to stop his heart, to close his eyes one last time.

When he had finally ceased weeping and all had become still and quiet, he thought of his brother. Lucius, who was surely hard at work striking Ardyn’s name from the official record, erasing him from history like the embarrassment he was. He thought too of his many wars, those fleeting glories of the past. He thought a little of Valia as well, but not as much as he might have. He had wasted many long hours down here remembering him, recalling every small detail, every gesture, every word so that they might not die along with him.

Now, he was forced to face the truth: Valia was gone. He had been abandoned here.

Abandoned, perhaps, but not alone. Something had come out of the darkness to be with him in his final moments.

It whispered in his ear that vengeance could still come. Until that moment, Ardyn had not considered revenge, but it appeared to him now as a bright star hovering in the darkness above his head. He had been made for war, the thing in the darkness told him. Made to ride forth on a pale horse and bring death to the world. Even now, it told him, even now it was not too late.

Then let me forget, Ardyn said to it. Let me forget, and you can have the rest.

It was done; the pact was sealed. The darkness washed over him, filling his eyes and mouth. It tasted like the deep earth, and when it entered him it was like being buried alive. Strong tendrils girded around his thighs, pushing up between his legs. Entering him there, too, flowing inside him until it had tainted every cell of his body.

Ardyn didn’t fight. He lay back and took it, letting the darkness drag him down into its fathomless depths.

There were no bones. Whatever Ardyn had found down here, it had subsumed him body and soul. The sarcophagus remained, though. That last spar he had clung to in the darkness; his final refuge as all had fallen into ruin around him.

Ignis straightened up and took hold of the golden lid. “Marshal, help me.”

In an instant, Cor was at his side. Together they lifted the solid lid aside. It was unexpectedly heavy, and it took some maneuvering to get moved so that it was leaning against one of the crystal formations. A linen shroud covered the body inside; Ignis pulled it away.

Valia’s body had been embalmed and mummified with care, and it was preserved even now. His arms were crossed over his chest in an attitude of peaceful repose, and over his face was a delicate golden death mask. Haltingly, Ignis reached out and stroked the smooth cheek with his fingertips.

He was staring into the mirror of his own face, and yet he hardly recognized it. In death, Valia looked young, beautiful, happy, at peace. Everything Ignis no longer felt about himself.

He tore his eyes away from the familiar face, looking down instead at Valia’s hands. The bandages had frayed away from the knuckles on one side to reveal a giant ruby glinting on Valia’s finger. Carefully, so he didn’t break the desiccated digit, Ignis slipped the ring off and held it in the palm of his hand. The filigree band was black with tarnish, but the red stone still shone brightly, as if lit from within.

The Fire of Ifrit; the last gift Ardyn had given him. Holding it in his hand now, Ignis knew that this was what he had been meant to find. It had all started with the donning of a ring that he had never been meant to wear. It now seemed that it would end that way as well.

He slipped the ring on, and braced himself against what happened next. But no spiritual fire leapt from the stone, no tongues of flame licked over him to rob him of his sight. It was just a ring, one that seemed perfectly made to his hand.

Cor was watching him warily. When Ignis looked at him, he felt that he was seeing the man for the first time in years. The Marshal looked tired, cold, unhappy. He had aged, mercilessly so, and soon his powerful body, in which he had placed so much faith, would begin to fail him. But when he caught Ignis’ eye the corner of his lips twitched into a half-smile. “You got what you came for, kid?”

Ignis took a deep breath. The cold air that flooded into his lungs worked wonders to clear his head. “I think that I do.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, I'm back!! Apologies for the chapter of filler to commemorate my return, but there should be more coming tomorrow.

Ignis was quiet during the hike down the mountain. Cor seemed to understand that he was working through things on his own, and so he maintained his own pensive and anticipatory silence, though he didn’t wear it particularly well.

On the second day, they reached a settlement, a burgeoning mining town clinging to the side of the mountain. Their appearance caused not a little commotion, which Ignis at first assumed was because they had come off the barren glacier to the north. All at once, he realized that their attention was not directed at both of them, but rather was reserved for him alone. His swirling fur cloak, hand-mended spear, the tangle of scarves wrapped around his face against the cold: these frontier people had recognized him from the first. They had all heard of the last great Hunter of the Long Night. They all knew enough to say that he had slain his final demon and come in from the cold at last.

That he had a reputation, much less one that preceded him with so much fanfare, struck Ignis has vulgar and absurd. He had retreated into the mountains in order to distance himself from his former life, but he had succeeded only in carving out a new name for himself, one utterly separate even from the king’s.

He had at last become the person that Ravus had known him to be from the first. Ignis had not believed him back then, and he had the distinct feeling that it was too late now to show Ravus how right he had been. He wondered if they had not lost each other for good. When he had departed Insomnia, it had been with the knowledge that he might never see Ravus again. As impulsive and rash as Ignis knew the man to be, he did not think Ravus would have waited for him.

Though it had been hard living up on the mountain, the long cold nights had afforded him plenty of opportunities to dwell on that knowledge. He had nursed a sharp and secret pang of longing until it calcified within him, as if his body had moved to protect him the way it would from any invasive foreign object. He felt that he still carried the pain inside him, but with all its edges blunted and all its vulnerable parts hardened into armor. In his mind, he pictured it as a serene and silent crystal suspended within him, ever hiding its cold light within the prison of his ribcage.

In the small and cramped sundries store, Ignis scrutinized the shelf of cooking supplies for far longer than Cor probably would have liked. There wasn’t much fresh food, but, he recalled, French cuisine generally required very little in the way of specialized ingredients. Gradually, a recipe began to take shape in his mind, and he was quick to gather up what he needed and duck out from under the brazenly curious eyes of the clerk.

They got set up in one of the empty summer cottages on the edge of town. Without a word, Ignis took out the items he had bought and began to make dinner. His hands remembered what to do, and so he left the task to them. His mind was a comfortable blank as a quartered a pair of winter hares and chopped neat piles of onions and mushrooms. He simmered them all together in wine on top of the stove. All in all, it was a fair approximation of lapin a la Bourguignonne, even if the herbs ought to have been fresher, the wine with less of a fruit finish.

While he waited for the rabbit to poach, he placed a few small, soft, wrinkled winter potatoes amongst the coals to bake. It had been some time since he’d prepared a meal with anything other than sustenance in mind, and he did so now with suspicious trepidation.

He must have been doing something right. Presently, Cor appeared at his elbow, sniffing around the goings-on in the kitchen.

Ignis poured the last of the cooking wine into two glasses and handed one over to Cor. He took a drink of his own before venturing, “I want to tell you a story.”

When Cor didn’t say anything, Ignis motioned for him to sit. He sucked in a deep breath, feeling the words gather inside of him. Then he began:

"Once upon a time, there was a prince. And this prince had one great love before any other…”

***

Cor listened quietly while Ignis got the whole tale out. He did a fair job of it, though it wasn’t until he began the telling that he realized he’d only ever heard it in pieces himself. When he finished, he found that at some point he had fished Valia’s ring out of the folds of his cloak and was twisting it around his finger. It was on that red stone that Cor’s eyes settled when Ignis at last came to the end of the tale.

“Hell of a shame,” he said. “If that’s really how it happened.”

“It must be,” Ignis replied. “The tomb proves as much.”

“Well, it’s a sad story at any rate.”

“Yes,” Ignis said. “But I feel I’ve told you this much, and I must burden you with a little more. When I first heard the truth, my inclination was not towards sadness. Instead, all I felt was an overwhelming fury. A rage like none other, that the dynasty to which I had devoted my life and all I had ever cared for was built upon blood and betrayal.”

“Is that why you ran?” Cor asked.

“I suppose that it must be,” Ignis said. “I had always thought of myself as being predisposed to melancholy rather than anger. Sadness, it seemed to me, was more dignified, less intrusive into the lives of others. It was how well-bred, obedient young men dealt with hardship.”

Cor sighed. “There’s nothing wrong with a little righteous anger, but I think you might have missed the mark on this one. All of this happened centuries ago. You can’t change it, can’t help it.”

“And yet all any of us have is because of it. That must count for something. That we have all benefited from this secret. I hate to think that because it has been treated as something so shameful, never allowed to see the light of day, that is why Valia’s spirit can’t rest.”

“I know a thing about that, too,” Cor said. “The ghosts of the past. There’s a place I’ve been a couple of times before, where the spirits of dead warriors, ones killed in battle, gather. Thought, once, that I might become one of them, but it’s looking less likely these days. Maybe I should have taken you there too, but back then I didn’t think you’d get much out of it. I can’t tell if I figured you wrong or if you’ve changed somehow.”

There, Cor paused, thinking over how to proceed. “You always think there’s something there, but there isn’t. Just a lot of past that doesn’t have the decency to lie down and stay dead like it ought to. You never asked me for advice, and that’s fine. But I want you to think hard about what you’re going to do next. You can’t change what happened back then. It’s the future that you have to worry about.”

Without meaning to, Ignis thought again of Ravus. During their last meeting, it seemed to him that Ravus had said all he needed or wanted to say. Not for the first time, Ignis realized that he envied the man’s ability to blunder through life, saying and doing as he would and confident of always landing on his feet. 

Back then, Ignis had not felt free to speak openly to him. He regretted it now, but not bitterly, assuming that Ravus, through some combination of his uncanny intuition and bulletproof wishful thinking, had figured out what he meant.

“You give good counsel,” Ignis said. “Even though, as you say, I didn’t ask.”

“Just give it some thought,” Cor said. “We’ll be back soon. Everyone’s going to be surprised to see you. You should probably at least try to act like you missed them.”

Out of everything Cor had told him, that made the most sense. He was right, of course. Ignis still had a duty to his prince and his companions. That comforted him somehow.


	28. Chapter 28

By the time they reached the gates of Insomnia, Ignis felt that his spirit had been much calmed. It was dusk when they arrived, and the main thoroughfares were lit sporadically, only every third or fourth streetlight left burning. 

It was dark enough to see the stars. Ignis could not remember it ever being like that inside the city limits, where the bright lights of economic progress had always burned day and night. It had been a long time since he had brushed up on his astronomy, but as he idly scanned the horizon Ignis could pick out some of the familiar constellations: Phoenix. The Siren. Alexander’s Helm. He did not know how to navigate by them.

Not long after they had crossed into the city proper, members of the Nightguard intercepted them. They were polite and deferential, and they knew Cor at a glance, but there was something insistent about the way they closed around the two of them and escorted them back to the palace.

After speeding them through the courtyard, the guards were quick to lead them to separate rooms, scarcely giving Ignis the chance to utter a rushed goodnight to his companion. Even after they had shown Ignis into the spacious, lavishly furnished apartment that had been set aside for him, one of the guards lingered behind.

He was steely-expressioned and serious, but quite young. Perhaps not old enough to remember life before the Long Night, but only old enough to know that one day a man had stepped out of the darkness and put an end to it.

Ignis leaned his spear against the wall and swept off his long cloak of furs. “You don’t have to stay. I don’t require an attendant tonight.”

The young guard did not move, save to shift on his feet.

“...unless, perhaps, you were ordered to,” Ignis surmised.

Again, that barely perceptible shuffle of feet. 

“You needn’t worry,” Ignis said. “I have not returned to cast any more shame upon His Majesty. I’ve only come back to fulfill a promise. Please, make yourself comfortable while I clean up.”

The tile in the bathroom was stone cold against his bare feet, but the warm water from the tap was in infinite supply. There were tiny sealed bottles of shampoo, and a wafer of milky soap in the rack on the shower wall. They were wrapped in soft, silky cloth and tied with a black ribbon, just like the toiletries in an upscale hotel or resort where rich young scions went to recover from their addictions.

Ignis stayed in for a long time, soaking the chill out of his bones. When he at last emerged, wrapped in a black terrycloth robe, he was surprised to find the young guard had vanished. Ignis glanced over at the pack he had brought down from the ice. It was rifled slightly, and his spear and daggers were missing.

He supposed it was the young man’s idea of a compromise, and, considering everything, Ignis could not feel particularly slighted by it. After all, he had been the first one to break the unspoken contract by which the realm operated as smoothly as it did. The young soldier had been one of the many new recruits of the Crownsguard. He did not know Ignis, save by whatever whispers and rumors remained to haunt the palace in his absence.

Cor had filled him in on the journey back. He knew that Noctis had surrounded himself with a new honor guard, drawn from the upper ranks of the Hunters. Men and women with sterling reputations but no past in the capital. Strangers, all of them.

Ignis supposed he would have to start getting used to it, starting in the morning. Tomorrow, he told himself, he would begin to make sense of it all.

***

The sun was already streaming around the heavy curtains when Ignis awoke. He’d slept for almost 12 hours by his estimation, and rather than refresh him, it had left him feeling dull and sluggish. The smell of coffee roused him, and when he sat up in bed he saw that a silver tray had been left on the bedside table. It held a plate with two eggs and a slice of wheat toast, alongside an ornate silver coffee pot and two dainty cups.

Ignis was not a heavy sleeper, and he wondered who could have stolen in without waking him, but he questions was answered as he leaned over to pour himself a cup of the dark, bitter Turkish coffee. The light slanting around the curtains did not shift as it should. The shadows in the room seemed to bend around it, as if refracted through a prism.

“You might as well come out,” he said, filling one of the delicate cups with coffee and offering it.

The shaft of light wavered momentarily, and then Quintus Antinous stepped forward and out of it, as if passing through a doorway from another room. The trail of his long ice-blue robe remained in the light, and where they bisected each other the fabric vanished into thin air, as if it had been cut off neatly with a sharp blade.

“I didn’t mean to impose,” Quintus said, taking the offered cup.

“And yet, I suppose there is a reason you are here.” Ignis calmly poured coffee into the second cup for himself. The first mouthful served to clear his head somewhat. “How did you know I was back?”

“I find that if I stay quiet and attentive, I know most things that happen around here.” Ignis realized that Quintus was no longer looking him in the eye. He followed the spirit’s gaze downward, to where it was fixed on the red ring on his finger.

“You found him, then,” Quintus said with a sigh.

“I found something of him.” Ignis twisted the ring on his finger, turning it to conceal the stone. All at once, he thought of the skeleton he had uncovered in the ossuary, wrapped in blue rags and with the remnants of a stab wound in its gut. “I found something of you, as well.”

“Don’t concern yourself with that,” Quintus said.

Ignis scrutinized him closely over the rim of his coffee cup. Quintus still had the same kind, beautiful eyes. Just as they had been even at the moment of his death. Ignis did not think that he could understand it.

“Was it worth it?” he asked at last, sounding more frustrated than he had intended. He wished that Quintus would take offence at his tone, would at least have the decency to snap back at him. Instead, he only smiled.

“What was done was for the good of the realm. Blood washes away sin, earns the favor of the gods. This new age must remember the true meaning of sacrifice, as we meant it back then.”

“I don’t doubt that you had the blessings of the gods back then. But so much time has passed, I fear that they have faded, or curdled.”

“That’s not fair,” Quintus said. “You went to the tomb of your own volition. You saw only the worst of us…”

“Then tell me,” Ignis replied. “What did His Majesty do in my absence? How did he react when I disappeared?”

“He tracked your movements. The great hunter of the Northern Wastes. Whenever he heard of a traveler who had come from the frontier, he brought them here, enquired after you. All these long months, he has been following your progress.”

“Then why isn’t he here?”

“Is it not more appropriate for a retainer to request an audience with his king than the other way around?” Quintus said primly, with an infuriating lack of malice.

“Very well,” Ignis replied. “Then what of Prompto and Gladio? My brothers in arms. Where are they?”

“Gone to their estates in the country, I imagine,” replied Quintus. “His Majesty has said himself that anyone who served him during the Long Night is due early retirement. He expects nothing from his former retainers save that they enjoy themselves on the royal treasury’s dime.”

Ignis could have laughed, it was so preposterous. “The just and generous actions of a benevolent king,” he said. “And yet so utterly unlike Noctis as to border on the absurd.”

“Then he has changed, as is befitting his position.”

“You don’t understand,” Ignis said. “Let me tell you a story, then. In 10th grade, Noctis came to me half-pleading and half-demanding that I help him turn his calculus grade around. He often sought me out when he fell behind in his studies. The school might have looked the other way if he was in genuine danger of failing, but it never got that far because he asked me first. That time, though, he’d waited until almost the end of the term. I worked with him through the nights for a full week, kept awake by black coffee and my nearness to him. It did not once occur to him that whole time that I might have my own studies, my courtly duties. As he grew snappish and short-tempered, he did not once think that I might be missing sleep as well.”

“Then his temperament has improved,” Quintus said. “It seems to me the product of maturing mind.”

“I’m sorry, but you don’t really understand him at all,” Ignis said. “There was no ill-will in those demands he made, or malicious entitlement. He simply enjoyed my company, and so it made all those long hours pass briskly. It never once occurred to him that he might be imposing, and I never once made any indication that he was. And that is why I cannot believe that he would send Prompto and Gladio away, as if all those years we had together amounted to nothing more than a bill to be settled.”

“What do you propose has happened, then?”

“I think that he has distanced himself from them purposefully, because they know him too well. He has replaced them with strangers, because no stranger will be able to say that he is no longer the man he once was.”

Quintus Antinous was frowning slightly. His gentle eyes had narrowed into slits. “I fear that you’ve become too smart for your own good.”

“I’m no such thing,” Ignis snapped.

“As you say. But be careful with what you think you know about this.”

“And you? What do you know? You who claim to see all that transpires in this palace.”

“I’ve seen enough to know that this land is at peace,” Quintus Antinous told him sharply. “Something you may have neglected to notice as you dashed about chasing phantoms in the snow.”

“I will out the truth.”

“No one will thank you,” Quintus Antinous said. The words were harsh, but his tone was as gentle and soothing as it had ever been. “No one will be grateful. They will only resent you for disordering their ordered lives.”

All at once, he stepped forward, taking one of Ignis’ hands between both of his own. He may have been but a spirit, but his hands were warm and strong and solid. “That’s what I came here to tell you. Not to threaten, not to dissuade by reason. But to warn you of what awaits you if you see this through.”

Ignis felt his distrust and frustration melt away in an instant. He thought now that he could suddenly see very clearly what kind of man Quintus was. Carefully, he extracted his hand so that he could set it over one of the ones that had held it.

“You never deserved what they did to you,” Ignis said, looking Quintus in the eye. “But if you don’t want me to try to fix this for your sake, then let me do it for Valia’s.”

At the mention of that name, Quintus jerked away as if he had been stung.

“And for myself,” Ignis went on. “If you prefer to think it is for selfish reasons. There’s someone who would be disappointed in me if I didn’t try to make some sense of this. We never made each other any promises, but still, I’d like to try to make him happy.”

When Ignis stood up, Quintus drew back, bowing his head. “As you wish, Lord Scientia,” he said quietly. “I will keep what we discussed here between us.”

“That’s all I ask.”

A fresh set of Crownsguard fatigues had been left folded on a chair. Ignis retrieved them and moved to change behind the folding screen. Right before he stepped around to the other side, he glanced back.

Quintus Antinous had turned to watch him, moving once more into the beam of light from the window. The sunlight slanted across half his body, and wherever it touched had become translucent as the air itself. The beam fell over his face at an angle, obscuring one eye but not the other.

The one that Ignis could see was wide and unblinking. Staring, but seeing nothing at all.

Without another word, Quintus Antinous stepped back into the light and vanished completely, never making a sound or a ripple.


	29. Chapter 29

Dressed again in the raiment of the royal court, Ignis had begun to feel as if he were finding his footing once more. No matter how long he had been gone, what had changed in his absence, this place was his home, the only one he had. 

It was as he was finishing off his coffee that the young soldier who had shown him to his room the night before quietly let himself in.

“I hope you’re here to return my belongings,” Ignis said. “They have sentimental value.”

“The king requests your presence, Lord Scientia,” the young man replied.

Ignis took a sip of coffee to hide the expression that came to his face. It was a pensive hardening of the mouth and contraction of the brows. Even after everything, he wasn’t ready for this.

“Not so taciturn as last night, I see,” Ignis said, rising. He was making a great effort to appear calm and collected. “Since we’re off to such a good start, might I be so bold as to ask your name?”

“Arcus,” he said shortly. 

No family name, Ignis noted. An orphan, then, of the Long Night. Though he did not think he had much to fear from this young man, Ignis remained on his guard as he rose to follow him. Arcus led him through the palace; Ignis remembered the route, but the way no longer looked familiar. The once brilliant halls and common rooms were shrouded in a uniform dirty gray light. Only a quarter of the magnificent light fixtures were on; in some, the bulbs had burned out, while in others they had simply been removed and never replaced.

The lavish elevator that went to the highest floors of the palace was all but dark when the door slid closed behind them. Only the emergency runner lights that ringed the floor were still lit, and they cast a ghostly and diffuse glow over the interior of the car. 

Arcus had taken up a position in the far corner. Ignis could not make out much of his face save for a collection of shadows and the pinpoints of his unnaturally bright eyes. 

“Are you still rationing the electricity?” Ignis asked, not believing for a second that was the case.

“We prefer it this way,” the young man replied. When he moved his head, the glow in his pupils shifted, like the reflection off a cat’s eyes. “We see well in the dark.”

For the first time, Ignis’ unease outweighed his sense of propriety. He bent one hand up behind his back, out of sight, and tried to call a glaive to it. He felt the familiar heat - a comfort to his icy fingers - but that was all. His hand was left humming like a disconnected circuit, with nothing to bridge the gap.

Though Ignis was sure that he had been discrete, he thought he caught a sound from the shadowy corner where his escort stood. It seemed to him a hiss of derisive laughter.

The elevator came to a halt and Ignis knew he had no choice but to follow Arcus out into the hall. Up here, it was even darker than the floors below. When they passed through the Great Hall on the way to the king’s private chambers, Ignis was disconcerted to see that the massive skylight overhead had been painted over. The only light left came from candles ensconced on the walls.

Noctis had moved to his father’s old residences, adjacent to the Great Hall. Beyond the office in the front, Ignis had never seen them, but as he passed through several large and dark reception rooms, he was struck by how unsuited they seemed to the prince he had known. He could remember the way Noctis’ room had looked when they were children together: the posters on the walls, the piles of clothing heaped in the corners that not even the best efforts of the cleaning staff could contain.

He felt far from that place, and from those days. There was no going back to them now, though. The only way out of this was forward, and through.

Arcus escorted him into a cavernous sitting room where Noctis waited for him. It was too dark to tell whether his appearance had changed. His face was almost entirely masked in shadow, but Ignis knew him at once. By the line of his shoulders, the way he carried his head. All those small signifiers that he had never been consciously aware and yet he could never forget.

A nurse in a starched black dress and matching peaked cap stood before him, holding a swaddled bundle in her arms. Noctis did not turn to look as Ignis entered. He was busy inspecting something tucked into the folds of the black shroud.

When Ignis stepped forward, the bundle let out a single, squalling cry, so loud that Ignis almost jumped.

He saw Noctis pause in what he was doing, and then rearrange the folds of the blanket. Rising, he waved the nurse away with a sweep of his hand, and she disappeared back into one of the shadowy corners. There was no sound but the tap of her heels on the black marble, and then the heavy sound of a door closing.

Noctis waited until she was gone to speak. They were alone aside from Arcus, who had withdrawn to a post near the entrance. 

The prince turned to look at him, but Ignis could still not make out his face. All he could say with any certainty was that his eyes were very bright, like two unnatural coals smouldering in a blank and featureless mask.

“That was my son,” Ignis heard his friend’s voice say from somewhere in the pool of shadow that made up his face. “Regus Ignis Caeum.”

“Blessings upon you both,” Ignis replied through lips that felt suddenly numb and loathe to form words.

“Named after two men who could not be there for his birth. To honor the memory of the dead, or so I thought. And yet, I see one of them before me now.”

“It was never my intention to mislead you, Your Majesty.” Ignis lowered his eyes to escape Noctis’ dark, blazing stare. “But there was something I had to do.”

“And is it finished now?”

“Very nearly,” Ignis said.

“No,” Noctis replied. “It’s over.”

There was a sound behind him, so soft as to almost be sub-audible. Ignis detected it only because he had gotten in the habit of relying on more than just his eyes. He heard the soft footfall on the marble, and he twisted away from it.

The knife was aimed at the side of his throat, the blue pulse of his carotid artery, but when Ignis moved it missed its mark, embedding itself halfway to the hilt in his shoulder instead.

Ignis didn’t waste his breath crying out. He turned on his attacker, adjusting his stance automatically to account for what could well turn out to be a useless left arm.

Arcus had kept hold of the knife - a light rapier-bladed weapon that Ignis had not seen on him before. He had kept it concealed, then, like a good assassin. The young man seemed more annoyed than surprised that Ignis had avoided the initial strike, but he did not let it slow him down. He darted in for a second attack. Fast, Ignis had to admit, but not fast enough.

He caught the wrist of Arcus’ sword hand, and then turned with the thrust, forcing Arcus to reach across his body until he was hopelessly off balanced. He jerked down on the young man’s arm, bringing his leg up to meet it. His knee connected with the back of Arcus’ elbow, hyperextending the joint until it popped sickeningly.

There was a moment before Arcus could get his breath back enough to scream. When Ignis released him, he stumbled forward, off-balance, and it was little effort to kick his legs out from under him.

Arcus crumpled forward onto hands and knees. The gentlemanly thing would have been to leave it at that, but Ignis doubted that the young soldier was interested in following the gentlemanly rule of engagement. As he went down, Ignis followed him, landing a sharp blow on the back of his shoulders. Arcus’ dislocated elbow buckled, laying him out flat on the marble floor. Ignis grabbed him by the scruff and forced his head down once, twice, hearing it connect with a solid crack each time.

After the second hit, Arcus was still. There was a trickle of blood from his hairline, and both his eyes were rapidly swelling shut, but Ignis was satisfied that he would live, and he’d be wiser for it.

Ignis began to straighten up, but before he could regain his footing his jaw exploded in pain and he was sent flying by a solid kick. He went over on his side, landing on his injured left shoulder. His vision burst into white sparks, and then shrank to a blank-rimmed pinpoint. 

He felt himself losing consciousness, and he fought to rally.

When his head had at last cleared enough to get his bearings, the first thing he became aware of was that he was flat on his back and Noctis was standing over him, looking down with an expression of conciliatory patience.

“Pull yourself together, Ignis,” he said quietly. His strange, too-bright eyes were hooded, but Ignis could still see the black fire that blazed in their depths. It was no longer the purifying flame of divine power, but rather one that ravaged and consumed everything it touched.

In spite of all Ignis had come to suspect, he had not really thought that Noctis would try to hurt him. That, he knew now, had been his greatest mistake. Even with the coppery taste of blood from a split lip filling his mouth and the deep throb of a bruise spreading across his cheek, he was slow to comprehend it.

The prince drew his sword from the scabbard at his hip, and then he nudged Arcus’ still body with the toe of one of his boots. “You didn’t kill him?”

Ignis spat blood so he could speak. “He was only following orders. Wasn’t he?”

“Yes. So he was.” Before Ignis could react, Noctis had turned the sword and pistoned it downward, plunging it through Arcus’ body and into the floor below. The assassin’s eyes snapped open, and his hands flew back, scrabbling for the blade buried in his back. His shoulder blades came together as he tried to rise, stretching so far that the points of the bones almost touched.

Noctis pulled the sword free in a gout of crimson. Another smaller pulse followed a moment later, and then very little blood at all. Arcus’ body trembled violently, but his eyes had already glazed over. He was already dead when Noctis stepped forward, the stained sword swinging loosely at his side.

Ignis tried to push himself upright but his left arm would not take his weight. He had a moment to contemplate his burgeoning sense of fear and the realization that he had played his hand all wrong. Noctis had lured him in, a lamb to slaughter, knowing that even now, after everything that had happened, Ignis would come when his king called.

But this was not the man he had known, the prince he had worshiped. The schoolmate who he had loved. Whatever had happened during his long absence, it was no longer Noctis who stood before him.

He tried to propel himself backwards using his good hand, but Noctis sprang after him and pinned him down, setting the sole of his boot over Ignis’ wounded shoulder. When Ignis tried to struggle, more out of terror and panic than any rational hope of getting away, Noctis pressed down with his foot and the agony that followed froze him to the spot. His head swam, and he thought again that he would swoon. 

It was those black, blazing eyes that kept him awake. Ignis could not look away from them. They seemed disconnected from the face in which they were set, the only animated and mobile spots in a visage carved out of cold granite.

His eyes were as windows onto a terrible, whirling darkness within. Ignis could smell the faint odor of wet soil, as if he were confronted with something excavated from the deep earth. He had not smelled anything like it in a long time, but he knew it at once. In his mind it was inextricably linked to those dreadful, forsaken weeks he had spent in the bowels of Zegnattus Keep.

“You’re him,” he said in a gasp. “You’re Ardyn.”

It was neither a question nor a recrimination, but instead an acknowledgement of a truth he could no longer deny or avoid. Here was the reason for all his wanderings. It had all been in the service of escaping this man, the memories of what he had done; it had all been to lead him back here in the end.

Noctis smiled at the name. It was not the cold and unfeeling expression Ignis had expected. Rather it was the sudden, boyish grin he had come to know as uniquely Noctis’. Seeing it hijacked in the service of a new master made Ignis’ stomach twist into knots.

This was not one of Ardyn’s illusions or tricks. This was the real Noctis, his body somehow made hostage. His will subverted and ego excised, like a parasite that takes control of the behavior of its host.

“You figured it out,” Noctis said. “My dear, clever boy. You’re the only one.”

“Why--?” Ignis started to say, but Noctis cut him off with a petulant toss of his head. He had no patience for questions like that.

“You could have been my consort. My queen of the night. You could have been with me at the very end of the world.”

Ignis was aware that a tear had trickled from the corner of his eye and was slowly descending his cheek. He could not say what emotion had caused it. Whether pain or terror or rage, he felt numb to it now as he said, “I knew even then that it was not really me you wanted. I was but a poor substitute for what you had lost.”

Noctis tried again to smile, but this one was not even passably genuine. It looked more like a feral bearing of teeth, a wild beast bristling against some incomprehensible threat.

“I know what you’ve forgotten,” Ignis said. He pressed the heel of his hand against his breast, over his heart. “It’s here.”

“Then keep it,” Ardyn replied in Noctis’ voice. “Take it with you when you go.”

He raised his sword. Ignis watched it swing up in an arch that glittered faintly in the dim light. He had surely intended to face his death bravely, without flinching, but his body was not yet ready to give up on the drive to self-preservation.

As the blade came down, Ignis put his arms up to shield himself. A glittering red star passed in front of his eyes, and he had only an instant to recognize it as the Fire of Ifrit. He had been wearing the ring since he had found it in the tomb, long enough to forget about it, but now it glowed to violent life.

A wall of fire erupted between them.

It burst outward from the ring in a blinding conflagration. On the other side of the flames, Ignis saw Noctis waver for a moment, and then warp back, out of range of the blast. Ignis did not move nearly so fast, and as the fire receded, he could smell the smoking edges of his singed hair and eyebrows. 

The flames retreated back into the ring, but they had left the furniture badly blackened, the ornate Persian rug scorched. The heavy brocade curtains that had been pulled across the window to block the sunlight were still smouldering, and as Ignis struggled to his feet the flames caught and began to slowly climb upwards.

“Where did you get that?” Noctis snapped. “You little shit. You shameless thief.”

The curtains were burning steadily now, beginning to crumble to ash from the bottom up. As they did, a beam of sunlight slanted through the picture window, pooling on the floor between them. It was sudden and blinding in the dark room, and Ignis momentarily turned his face away to shield his eyes.

When he looked back, a gleaming figure stood in the pool of light between them. His back was to Ignis, so he could only see the confection of blue and indigo robes glittering with thousands of tiny crystal beads.

“I’m so sorry,” Quintus Antinous said. Ignis knew that the spirit was not speaking to him.

Noctis laughed, a grating unpleasant sound. “How nice. You two are friends. The most stubborn fool and the greatest coward that the gods have ever seen fit to inflict on me, I knew you would get along.”

“You’re the same as you ever were, Ardyn,” Quintus said. “A small boy who beats upon his toy shield, shouting his courage into dark closets and the shadows under the bed. Did you think I didn’t know you from the first? I thought it would be as I had always hoped: you and your brother, ruling side by side.”

“What a perfectly happy ending,” Noctis sneered. Then, without waiting for more, he sprang forward, bringing his sword to bear.

To Ignis’ admitted surprise, Quintus Antinous did not flinch of falter. He drew the light from the window to his hand and then launched it in a gleaming bluish-white bolt into Noctis’ chest.

The prince was frozen in place. In an optical illusion that Ignis could not quite parse visually, his form grew soft and indistinct around the edges. He trembled in place and then split into two distinct copies. One remained anchored in place, while the other was forced back a step, then two, splitting off from its twin.

Ardyn was forced back, out of the host body, like a new growth budding off a plant. He wavered like a mirage, and then solidified into flesh and blood. 

Freed of the force animating it, Noctis’ body slumped limp to the floor. Ardyn reeled for a moment, finding his balance, but when he straightened once more, the lingering energy from Quintus’ spell crackling in the air around him like static electricity, he looked as vicious and as lethal as he ever had.

His eyes darted toward the window. With a wave of his hand, he conjured a dark myst to cloud over the glass. Without the light to sustain him, Quintus Antinous faded back into the darkness, leaving Ignis alone with the beast.

Bur Ignis did not falter before him. He was already in motion; propelled across the room in three quick strides. As he moved, he called a glaive to his hand. Whatever force had been blocking the signal before was gone now, and Ignis felt the faint, familiar jolt as he spear appeared in his grasp.

He hurdled Noctis’ insensate body. Drawing his arm back, he plunged the tip of the spear into Ardyn’s chest. There was a solid crack as the it pierced through his breastbone. Ignis threw his weight against the shaft and the tip of the spear emerged from his back. Ardyn was carried backwards by the momentum, knocked off his feet. 

The spearhead stuck in the floor, the shaft jutting upward on the diagonal. A smear of thick black liquid stained the glaive where it had passed through Ardyn’s body, impaling him.

Ardyn tried to draw a breath, the wound in his chest puckering around the shaft of the spear as he inhaled. A wet rattle echoed up his throat from his ruined lungs, and he looked momentarily perplexed. When he opened his mouth, a gout of black viscous spilled from between his parted lips.

His expression twisted, black patches blooming on his flesh like bruises, distorting his features. He bared his coal-streaked teeth, and then seized the shaft of the spear in both hands and jerked himself up.

With a sick tearing sound, he dragged his body along the shaft, leaving ragged black scraps of flesh and cloth behind him. His face had contorted into a hideous death mask, stitched together from shadows. 

Ignis fought the overwhelming urge to pull away, and leaned into him instead, gripping his spear and twisting it. He heard it grinding against bone inside Ardyn’s body, heard the unmistakable snap of a rib giving way.

“What a monster you have become,” Ardyn whispered. “I knew you had it in you. You were always mine.”

Ignis gritted his teeth. “Where’s Ravus?”

Ardyn laughed at that, a ragged and wet sound within his shattered chest. “Dead,” he hissed. “Prompto and Gladio as well. And Noctis, as good as dead since I claimed him.”

He pulled himself forward once more, gathering his feet beneath himself. His bloodstained hands snapped out, closing around Ignis’ throat. “You’re the only one left, my stupid little boy.”

The grip around his throat tightened. Ignis’ wind was cut off, and he had just enough time to choke out, “I came back for you.”

He did not think Ardyn would listen, that anything he said would be enough, but then the grip on his throat loosened. Just a little, enough that Ignis could suck in a burning breath. “I saw the tomb. I know everything. I saw...”

“What nonsense are you talking now?” Ardyn whispered. His black-scarred face was inches from Ignis’. The flesh had cracked in places, and from each weal black ooze seeped continually. It smelled of the deep, dark earth.

Ignis did not dare look away. He held Ardyn’s eyes, flecks of tarnished gold suspended in pools of inky black. “I heard you, at the end. When you begged it to let you forget that you had ever been anything but the hand of death. But there are things one never forgets.”

Slowly, making sure that Ardyn could track every move, Ignis slipped the ring off his finger. The red stone produced its own light, burning from within. When he held it up between them, Ardyn turned his eyes away.

“Look at it,” Ignis said. “You know it, don’t you?”

“Paste jewels…” Ardyn said, his voice ground out from between his gritted teeth.

“It was Valia’s.”

Ardyn’s brow contracted in pain at the sound of the name. The raw black patches on his face rippled, then retreated back beneath the skin. His golden eyes were distant, his gaze slipping back through the centuries.

“Valia?” he echoed in a vague, uncertain voice. He caught Ignis’ chin in his hand. Though Ignis felt his skin crawl, he didn’t pull away.

“You know I’m not him.”

“He said he would wait.” Again, that furrowing of the brow, that downward twisting of the lips. Ardyn was struggling to remember, to forget. To reach back through the unforgiving currents of the past and to be carried away by them. “But I kept watch at the tomb, and he never came…”

“I can send you to him.” Ignis reached up between them, cupping Ardyn’s jaw between his hands. He could feel its strong hard lines, the way he thrust it stubbornly and proudly forward. It was even that stubborn pride that Valia had loved in him. Ignis reminded himself of that as he leaned forward. “You know I can.”

“Ever the martyr,” Ardyn said ruefully. “Ever bending to the whims of other men.”

“Stop that,” Ignis replied. “The time has come. It’s all over now. You can be with him again.”

He bridged the last inch between them and pressed his mouth to Ardyn’s. His lips were like ice, and when he sighed the breath that passed between them was freezing cold. Ignis dug his hands into Ardyn’s hair, the thick red strands weaving over and under his fingers. He held him close as he felt Ardyn breathe into him, exhaling a thousand years of grief and terror in a fligid black cloud.

Ignis felt his body open to it, drinking it in. It was as if a great rift had opened in his chest, an endless well into which Ardyn’s suffering flowed.

As the scourge ran out of him, Ignis felt Ardyn’s body sag in his arms. Ignis banished the glaive and without the spear to hold him up, Ardyn’s legs folded beneath him. Ignis held him close and lowered him to the marble floor. He bent over him, one arm crooked behind his head, holding him as a lover would. It seemed all he could do.

The torrent of darkness seemed as if it would never end, but at last it began to wane. Ardyn’s pulse had slowed to an intermittent flutter. When Ignis passed a hand over his chest, his fingertips came away damp with blood instead of black oil.

He straightened up and looked down into Ardyn’s face. His yellow eyes were wide open, staring straight ahead. Though his lips parted minutely, he did not try to speak. All that could be said already had been.

Ignis took one of Ardyn’s hands in his, lacing their fingers together. He could wait until the end; it wouldn’t be long now.

He was so tired. Exhausted in his very bones. It had dulled his senses; muting his hearing and blurring his vision, as if he saw everything through a heavy black veil of mourning. Weary now, beyond any measure, he sank to the cold marble floor at Ardyn’s side. Ardyn turned toward him, and as his gaze met Ignis’ he suddenly smiled.

It was a cold and mirthless expression that did not touch his eyes. A smile of grim and mocking irony. It froze on his face a moment later, as he let out a shallow breath and did not draw another one. His eyes slipped out of focus, and for a moment they seemed to see the infinite. 

Then they dulled and darkened and he saw nothing at all. Still, the bitter twist of his lips remained.

Ignis was still staring into that cruelly grinning death’s head when, a moment later, he closed his eyes and surrendered to a deep, dreamless sleep.


	30. Chapter 30

The first thing he became aware of was a voice reading to him:

“...what could have made her peaceful with a mind  
That nobleness made simple as a fire,  
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind  
That is not natural in an age like this…?”

Ignis placed the verse at once. It was Yeats. And hearing it recited so calmly, gravely, steadily, assuaged his spirit. He recognized the reader’s voice as well, knowing it at once by its low timbre, the careful schoolboy’s polish on the pronunciation of each word.

“Why, what could she have done, being what she is?  
Was there another Troy for her to burn?”

Ignis let him finish the lines before he tried to speak. “Lord Ravus?” 

His own voice sounded foreign to him, a dry whisper like the wind blowing through the dunes. 

Ravus moved at once, his fumbling attempts to set the book aside, to collect a cup of water from the table beside the bed, to shift to Ignis’ side, were all in stark contrast to the gentle and collected way he had read when he thought Ignis was asleep.

“You’re finally awake,” he said. “Don’t try to get up. Just drink this.”

A metal arm crooked behind Ignis’ shoulders, raising him slightly from the pillows. The cool rim of a glass pressed against his mouth. Though there were a thousand things he wanted to say, the moment he felt the water against his parched lips the words were all swept away.

He drank and drank. When the glass was at last empty, he reached up with a trembling hand, pressing his fingertips against the metallic bicep of the arm supporting his head, tracing the fitted plates up to where they rounded off into a shoulder.

“It’s really you,” he said.

“Yes,” Ravus replied.

“But--"

“Don’t push yourself.”

Ignis drew a shuddering breath, his fingers curling against Ravus’ steel shoulder. “Why can’t I see you?”

Ravus said nothing in reply. Slowly, testing his strength in advance of every movement, Ignis sat up. The blankets fell from around his shoulders to pool in his lap, and he paused to pass a hand over them, taking note of the texture of silk damask, fabric found only in the richest apartments of the palace, the ones closest to the king.

He reached up, taking Ravus’ face between his hands. Ravus did not move at all as Ignis explored with his fingers, tracing the curves of his brow, his strong cheekbones, the deep hollow above his upper lip. He stroked Ravus’ hair, remembering its silvery color but even now unsure if, in his memory, he had gotten the shade quite right. It was longer than it had been the last time he had seen it - almost down to the middle of Ravus’ back - and its windswept and messy waves had been tamed and smoothed down, secured with a pair of heavy golden combs decorated with golden laurel leaves.

“Are you all right?” Ignis asked.

That seemed to break the spell that had fallen over him. Ravus let his breath out in a heavy sigh. “I should be asking you that. We all should. Do you have any idea what you have done?”

Ignis bit his lip. His hands slipped from the sides of Ravus’ face and he pressed them into the folds of the bedding to hide that he had knotted them into fists. “I’m afraid I may have slain my king,” he said at last.

“Noctis?”

The sound of the name made Ignis’ stomach twist into knots. He felt suddenly starved for air, and he gasped gracelessly. With a fumbling sweep of his hands, he pushed the heavy blankets back, freeing his legs. Before Ravus could say anything, Ignis was on his feet. He stumbled a step, knees threatening to buckle underneath him and drop him into an ignoble heap on the floor.

Ravus caught him around the shoulders before he could fall. In a moment of panic, sure that there was somewhere he had to be, something he had to be doing to fix this, Ignis struggled with him.

“Noctis is fine,” Ravus said, holding Ignis tight. “Listen to me, please. Everyone is fine.”

Ignis stopped fighting, but he remained tense in Ravus’ grip. “But my eyes. The last time I betrayed my king, the gods struck me blind for my impudence. I have been treasonous again, gone beyond my station and suffered the consequences. Tell me the truth, Ravus. What has become of him?”

“That’s not--” Ravus lowered his head, the metal ornaments in his hair clicking softly together. “What do you think has happened, Ignis? What do you think you have done?”

His soft, serious voice set Ignis’ hands to trembling once more. He drew them up into the sleeves of his robe to hide their shaking. “I don’t know,” he whispered, feeling tears come to his sightless eyes. “I don’t know what has happened to me.”

Ravus sighed. “Come, my beauty. No, I’m sorry. I know you don’t like that. Lord Scientia, come and rest.”

Ignis allowed himself to be led over to a divan. Ravus guided him to sit down, but when he tried to pull away, Ignis kept hold of his hand, refusing to relinquish his grasp until Ravus had seated himself at his side.

“Listen to me, Ignis. You’ve been asleep for three days. The king was here almost the entire time. Gladiolus and Prompto kept vigil as well. They’re so protective, they only let me sit with you because they needed to rest. You saved us all, Ignis.”

“I only---” Ignis started to say, but Ravus silenced him with a touch of his hand and went on.

“It was as if we were all under the sway of an enchantment. No one suspected that anything could be wrong with the king. Not his dearest companions, not I when I was closest to him. You were the only one who dared to face him. You saw the truth, and then you slew Ardyn. Don’t you remember?”

“I remember,” Ignis murmured. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Can he really be dead?”

“He is,” Ravus said. “I saw the body myself. They wanted to burn the remains, but Cor took charge of them. He said he would bury Ardyn far to the north. No one dared argue with him.”

“Cor did that?” Ignis replied, genuinely surprised. In the end, when Ignis had needed him, the Marshal had come through one last time.

Ravus sighed, slipping an arm around Ignis’ shoulders. “I used to think that I understood you, Ignis. I thought I could detect some inner core of steel glittering within you, an inflexible strength that could propel you through any storm or trouble. Now I see that I was an arrogant man once again. I misjudged you, underestimated you.”

“You didn’t,” Ignis replied. “You were always so good to me. When I was in the wilderness, there were times when it was only the thought of you that sustained me--”

He broke off abruptly, afraid he had confessed too much, become too intimate after too long apart. He felt Ravus’ hand come to rest on the back of his neck, stroking his hair.

“My beauty--” Ravus paused, abashed. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Ignis sighed. Ravus’ fingers were slowly working the knot of tension at the base of his skull, easing it away. “It’s terribly annoying. But it comes from you, and so I don’t mind as much.”

He shifted over so his head was on Ravus’ shoulder. At last, he felt brave enough to ask, “My eyes. They’re very bad, aren’t they?”

Ravus hesitated before speaking. His caressing hand paused momentarily in its movements. “Not so bad,” he said at last. “But I shall miss their striking color.”

“What’s wrong with them,” Ignis asked, taking great care to ensure that his voice remained even, calm, measured.

“They’re black,” Ravus told him. “Black as the night.”

***

Ignis recovered quickly. He had not been hurt badly save for his shoulder, which, by all accounts, was healing nicely. Still, Ravus maintained a constant vigil over him, shadowing him when he was out of bed and helping him with all the small tasks that he could have managed on his own, sighted or not. He practically had them tripping over each other, though for the moment at least, Ignis did not particularly mind. He took advantage of the closeness to relearn Ravus’ body with his hands, remembering the shape it cut.

He was dressed in heavy embroidered silk, a long robe belted around the waist with trailing sash. The collar and epaulets were hemmed with satin braid. This was the attire of the royal consort, Ignis realized. Ravus still wore it, though clearly he had been returned to his old body. While there was no doubt that Ravus was here of his own accord, the presence of those fine clothes cast a shadow over all his sweet words and tender affections.

Noctis yet lived, and as long as he was king their duty to him still remained.

Ignis did not dare ask him about his time with Noctis, not yet. Surely it had been an ordeal, in many ways. Ignis did not want to betray any discomfort when they spoke of it, or, worse still, jealousy. He’d never even laid eyes on the Lady Fleuret, and he could scarce imagine Ravus as anything other than the man he had known.

Only later, when the dust had settled some, would Prompto confide to him, with a sly smile that showed in his voice, that she had been a handsome woman indeed.

Ignis did not doubt that, but for the time being he was the same Ravus he had ever been: brusque, impulsive, rough around the edges, possessive to the point of absurdity. As the day wore on and the news that Ignis was awake spread through the palace, Ravus remained at his bedside like a dutiful chaperone while an endless parade of gawkers and well-wishers filed in pay him respect.

Gladio and Prompto came by and stayed for a long time. They brought him the knives he had carried in the north - the spear, it seemed, had never turned up - and some of the coffee he liked, and then waited with what Ignis could almost take for nervousness for him to drink a little.

They talked a good deal, but mostly of the distant past, when they had been children together. Occasionally, though, the conversation dried up entirely, and in the silence that followed Ignis knew that his friends were looking into his strange, sightless eyes and thinking about the darkness behind them.

After one of these awkward lulls in the conversation, Ravus reached over and set a hand on Ignis shoulder. “Lord Scientia is very tired,” he said.

Though he wasn’t particularly sleepy at all, Ignis didn’t protest as Ravus showed them out. When he returned to the bedside, Ignis took his hand and clutched it hard.

“They’re afraid of me,” Ignis said. “What I have become.”

“They’re in awe of you,” Ravus told him.

“I don’t want them to be. I just want--” He couldn’t finish. A knot had risen in his throat, threatening to choke him.

“It is because you have surpassed them,” Ravus told him calmly. “You have become more than they ever thought possible. They are still the men you remember, but now they see you as someone new. Someone they must learn all over again.”

Ignis extracted his hand from the grip that held it. “Ravus, you should go.”

“Ignis, please.”

“Just for now,” Ignis said. His voice was steady, without a hint of tightness or tremor. He didn’t know how he managed it. “Get some rest, and then come back to me. I’ll be fine on my own.”

Ravus was quiet for a while. Ignis could well-imagine his jaw working silently in search of the right words. “As you wish, my lord,” he said at last.

He bent quickly, and Ignis half-dreaded and half-hoped that he would kiss his mouth. Instead, he only dusted his lips lightly over Ignis’ brow. In a whisper of perfumed robes, he rose to leave. Ignis held himself stiffly, proudly, until he had heard the door close behind him. Only then could he begin to weep.

Ignis covered his face to hide his tears. Though they felt warm against his palms, he could not shake the feeling that they were inky black, that they stained his cheeks wherever they touched, betraying the darkness within, the sin he had swallowed whole. 

He had seen what had happened to Ardyn, and Ardyn had been a great man. Whatever he may have done with his greatness in the end, there was no doubt that he had been inspired by a divine spark of ambition and clarity. If a man like that could fall prey to this scourge, Ignis could only imagine what it would do to him.

It was in the midst of that sudden and violent storm of tears that Ignis heard the door swing slowly open. He assumed it was Ravus, come to check on him one last time, to make sure that he was all right.

Ignis supposed that he was not, but he hadn’t wanted Ravus to know. Not like this.

But the tread that came toward him across the stone floor was light and graceful, a throaty whisper to Ravus’ stern command. Embarrassed, Ignis dried his eyes on his sleeve and gulped down the knot in his throat.

“You okay?” 

Ignis recognized the quiet voice at once, and his embarrassment was quickly subsumed by shame. “Your Majesty, I apologize,” he gasped out, turning away.

Noctis was at his side in an instant; the edge of the bed depressed as Noctis seated himself on it. His arm slid around Ignis’ shoulders, pulling him close. “Hey, relax. It’s all right. You don’t have to make such a big deal out of everything.”

To his surprise, Ignis heard himself laugh. It was a shaky, disused sound, but genuine all the same. He rested his head against Noctis’ shoulder. “It’s really you.”

“It is,” Noctis said. “It’s just me. Don’t know how I can make you believe it after everything, but I’ll try.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I know you.” Ignis pulled back so he could look Noctis in the face. He couldn’t see it, but he willed himself to remember its refined and delicate lines. “I will always know you.”

Satisfied that the extravagant show of emotion was finished, Noctis clasped Ignis on the shoulder and then sat back against the headboard. He stayed close at his side, but didn’t try to touch him again. For a long moment, he didn’t speak, but the silence was a comfortable, companionable one.

“I guess everyone’s been in here blowing smoke up your ass about what a hero you are,” Noctis said at last. “You must hate that.”

“It has been overwhelming,” Ignis replied.

“I’ll keep my part short, then.” He reached over, setting his hand over Ignis’ atop the blankets. “I’m grateful. I’m proud of you. It’s an honor to have you as a friend. But when you’re well enough to travel, I’m sending you and Ravus to Tenebrae.”

“I don’t understand,” Ignis said. “To what purpose? For how long?”

“A while,” Noctis said. “It doesn’t really have to be Tenebrae. It can be anywhere you want, as long as it’s far from here.”

Ignis felt as if a sliver of ice were being slowly driven into his heart. He managed to speak only with some difficulty. “Your Majesty, I know I’ve displeased you, but this is too severe--”

“Stop.” Noctis cut him off. “Listen to yourself. You never displeased me; you were always a good, loyal friend. But can you honestly tell me that you would be happy here?”

“This is my home,” Ignis whispered.

“It is,” Noctis sighed. “But we both know that you don’t belong here anymore.”

“Am I not still your retainer, Your Majesty? Is the city not ours once more? Things can just return to how they were before, can’t they?”

“No,” Noctis replied. “They really can’t. After everything you have done on your own, do you really think it’s possible to go back to that? To step back into the shadows? If you ask me, you’ve more than proven that you do better on your own. I’ve given it some thought, and I decided that you and Ravus need to be away from all this if you’re going have a chance.”

“Ravus,” Ignis echoed, as if he had forgotten the meaning of the name. “I don’t really know if he ought to factor into the decision. He’s just a friend.”

“He adores you,” Noctis said bluntly. “So just start getting used to the idea that you’re going to be getting all kinds of laid.”

Ignis felt his cheeks grow warm. “Spare me.”

“He wants to throw his hotdog down your hallway.”

“Oh, stop!”

“He wants to give you a handjob with his mouth.”

Ignis drove his elbow sideways into Noctis’ ribs. He was laughing, doing his best to hide it behind his hand. Then Noctis began to laugh as well, a rusty echo of the sound he used to make so easily and readily. Demurely stifling his giggles, Ignis leaned against Noctis’ side.

The king put an arm around his shoulders, holding him. Not once since he had entered had Ignis missed his sight, but he felt its absence terribly now. He wanted to know what expression was on Noctis’ face as he drew him close.

“I love you,” Ignis said. “I think I always have.”

“Yeah,” Noctis replied. “I know. And I love you. Just not the way you want.”

“I would stay by your side all the same.”

“And that’s exactly why you have to go.”

“I understand, Your Majesty,” Ignis said. “I shall make the arrangements soon.”

“I want you to be happy, my friend,” Noctis told him, running his fingers through Ignis’ hair. “You should have a fair shot, anyway. Even if its not with me.”


	31. Chapter 31

After a late supper, Ignis went out on the balcony to feel the chill of the evening. Tenebrae was located in the mountains, and though Ignis was not able to see it, he could smell the difference on the air.

There was a crisp, sharp edge to the wind that night, a premonition of snow. Though he had heard that winter came early in Tenebrae, the chill struck him as significant all the same. It was an unmistakable signifier of the passage of time.

It had been nearly four months since he and Ravus had left Insomnia together. Ignis had not kept track of the days precisely. He, who had once adhered so rigorously to schedules and calendars, now found he had no head for such organizational rigors.

At almost thirty years old, he was finally taking his first vacation. Once, Ignis had thought that if he were ever free of his court duties he would spend the time catching up on his studies, mulling over pressing matters. Perhaps he would write his memoirs. It had all seemed very nice and civilized to dream about.

In fact, since he had gotten here, Ignis had accomplished very little of substance. Being in Tenebrae was like being awash on a very comfortable and luxurious sea. Though the city was still in the process of rebuilding, the people had proved generous and considerate hosts. He’d been assigned a pair of velvet-voiced young pages who would read to him and help him write his letters home. They were invaluable to him most of the time, but for tonight, Ignis had sent them away.

And so, when he heard the sound of soft footsteps approaching him from within the palace, he knew at once who it was, and he was glad for it.

“I thought you might be too busy to see me,” he said without turning around.

“Too busy for you?” Ravus said. His hands came down on Ignis’ waist, encircling it. “Never.”

Ignis was acutely aware of the way Ravus was tracing the ridges of his hip bones with his fingertips, but he held himself very stiff and still, as if balancing some brittle, precious object atop his head. “And yet I feel I see you so rarely, my lord.”

Ravus paused briefly, but then he leaned in and pressed his lips to the back of Ignis’ neck. “I got the impression that you wanted to be alone.”

For a long moment Ignis thought about pulling away. He could do so proudly, imperiously, without losing his poise, so that Ravus would know beyond any doubt that he did not need him. He no longer needed anyone to be complete.

In the end, he held himself back. He was being ridiculous. With a sigh, he turned in Ravus’ arms to face him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I think perhaps we both need a little practice in saying what we really feel.”

“Yes, perhaps.” He felt Ravus relax a little; until that moment, Ignis had not realized how tightly the man was holding himself. “Did you want me to start?”

Ignis’ lips twitched into a smile. “Let’s go inside first. It’s getting cold.”

Ravus pulled away to offer Ignis his arm, a courtly gesture that he had almost certainly picked up recently. That wild creature Ignis had first met as a boy had at last been tamed and groomed for show. Ignis set his hand lightly in the crook of Ravus’ elbow and allowed Ravus to escort him inside. He led them over to a pair of divans and a low table arranged in the corner.

A decanter of brandy was set out for them, and Ravus poured some into a pair of crystal glasses. Ignis cupped his between his palms, allowing his hands to warm the liquid within. The cushions depressed as Ravus sat down at his side and slung an arm around his shoulders. Ignis let himself relax against Ravus’ side.

He felt his chest rise and fall in a quiet sigh. “I’m almost afraid to ask, my beauty. Are you happy here?”

“Yes,” Ignis said instantly. “Your people are kind and generous. I’ve been showered with so many gifts since we arrived, I’m afraid they must have thought my old things rather shabby.”

“They do love their finery,” Ravus replied. “And they must think you are deserving of it.”

He plucked at the thick fur collar of Ignis’ dressing gown. “Is this new?”

“Yes.”

“I like it.”

“It’s not ostentatious?”

“No, it suits you.” He pressed a kiss to Ignis’ cheek. “I’m glad you’re making yourself at home.”

“And you, my lord?”

“I’m fine,” Ravus said. “I’m the prodigal son returned. All my prior transgressions are forgiven, or at least overlooked.”

Ignis sipped his brandy, and then set his hand on Ravus’ chest. Beneath his tailored shirt, his body was still lean and hard. Ignis explored the solid musculature with his fingers as he said, “I’m afraid I have been a touch reserved around you lately. Should I be more demonstrative in my affections?”

Ravus laughed softly. The rise and fall of his chest felt good against Ignis’ palm. “Was that your attempt at dirty talk? I admit, I’m intrigued.”

“Not exactly,” Ignis replied. Though it made him feel more than a little frivolous, he knew that his cheeks were turning crimson. “Let me finish my drink first.”

“You don’t need to push yourself,” Ravus said. “I don’t want you to feel you have to pretend for my sake.”

“Pretend?” Frowning, Ignis straightened up so that he was facing Ravus. “I never intended to deceive you.”

“And yet there is somewhere else you would rather be. Someone else you would rather be with.”

Ignis was quiet for a moment, embarrassed that Ravus had, once again, come to so easy and natural a conclusion about him. And yet, the longer the words hung unaddressed in the air between them, the more false they came to sound. Perhaps it was Noctis’ last command to him, or the hospitality of the Tenebraians. Or perhaps it was a change that had begun long ago, when he had first started to carve out a life for himself in the shadow of the Long Night. Whatever the case, he no longer felt that his life was tied inextricably to some fanatical sense of duty.

Untethered at last, he felt not so disoriented nor as lost as he had feared that he might. Ravus was here, and that was the most he could have ever hoped for. Winding his arms around the man’s neck, he leaned in and kissed him. His mouth tasted like brandy, and it had a dry and electric quality, like faint traces of ozone left in the air after a lightning strike.

Shifting onto his knees, he swung one leg over so he was straddling Ravus’ lap. When he leaned back to catch his breath, his lips felt swollen and raw.

“You’re wrong,” Ignis said. “It’s you that I want. I can’t tell you it was always so, but now…”

“I know.”

“I love you.” The words were out before Ignis could think better of them, and he knew that he was blushing. When Ravus didn’t respond right away, Ignis could only assume his silence was one of skepticism. “Believe me, please. I don’t know how to show you, how to prove it to you. But--”

“I believe you,” Ravus said. “I know you would not say something like that carelessly.”

Ignis lowered his eyes. “For so long, all I could think is that you were not Noctis, that you could never be exactly like him. I think that’s why I didn’t recognize it for what it was. But I know it now, Ravus. I’m sure of my mind, and of my heart. I love you, if you will allow it.”

Ravus stroked his hands up and down Ignis’ side slowly, thoughtfully, taking it in. At last, he kissed him on the corner of the mouth and said, “I suppose it’s a bit anticlimactic after all that, but you know that I love you too, don’t you?”

“I had my suspicions,” Ignis said, smiling. “But I like hearing you say it.”

Ravus wrapped his arms round Ignis’ waist and then stood, lifting Ignis along with him. Ignis first let out a sharp breath of surprise, and then wound his legs around Ravus’ waist to make himself a more agreeable burden.

“I like this, too.”

“Is that so?” Ravus started toward the bedroom. “Perhaps we can find other things that are amenable to you?”

Bending elegantly at the waist, he set Ignis on the edge of the bed. Ignis took hold of his collar and pulled Ravus after him as he reclined. Ravus was quick to obey, shrugging out of his suit coat and shirt as he followed Ignis’ lead. He tossed both articles aside, and Ignis pressed his palms against his chest, exploring the fine- sculpted musculature.

“I’m glad the quiet life hasn’t slowed you down. You’ve been working hard.”

“There’s nothing I dread more than becoming slow and complacent.”

“Hunting?” Ignis asked. “Sparring? Horsemanship, perhaps? I remember what fine horses Tenebrae has.”

Ravus laughed softly. “The gym, mostly.”

Ignis was oddly disappointed by the answer, and for a moment he feared that it showed on his face. If Ravus noticed, he only bent his head slightly and pressed a blazing kiss to the side of Ignis’ throat. “Things cannot stay the same forever, my beauty.”

“No," Ignis replied. “And I am glad for that.”

Wary of losing the mood, he was quick to fumble his hands over the ties of his dressing gown, spreading it open. He sensed a momentary hesitation on Ravus’ part, and he reached up to draw him down into a kiss.

“I want this,” he breathed against Ravus’ mouth. “I want you.”

Ravus still seemed inclined to take him at his word. He caught Ignis around the waist and lifted him onto the bed, so he head rested on the pillows. Ignis head he click of metal as Ravus undid his belt and tossed his trousers aside. Then he raised his hips so Ignis could slide the rest of his clothing off.

Ignis drew him down, feeling Ravus’ trim hips settle between his thighs, the smooth curve of his legs, the delicate swelling of his calf muscles. He could feel as well the stiff ridge of Ravus’ cock, sliding up the inner joint of his hip, pressing against his stomach when Ravus bent to kiss him. Then pulsing against Ignis’ fingers as he closed his hand around the shaft and stroked it.

Ravus moaned against his mouth. He ducked his head, pausing to lick and nibble at Ignis’ neck, to tease a nipple with his tongue as he kissed his way down Ignis’ chest, over his abdomen. 

When he reached the juncture of his hips he drew away. Ignis tried to arch his back, to follow the warm press of his lips. Ravus pushed him back, gently enough but with a fiery strength behind it that made Ignis’ stomach turn over. 

A moment later, Ravus bent over him once more. Ignis felt the wings of his long silver hair draped over his thighs, and then the feathering of his lips on the underside of his cock. When he reached the head, he slipped his mouth over it, taking him in.

Ignis stifled a moan behind his hand. Ravus leaned back just enough to free his mouth. “Don’t do that. I want to hear you.”

His breath felt cool against the dampness on his skin. Ignis lifted the hand from his lips and set it on the back of Ravus’ neck and urged his head back down. Ravus’ lips parted, taking him in, all the way to the base. Ignis gasped, his fingers clenching tight in Ravus’ hair, pushing him down and then pulling him back, setting a pace that he liked.

Ravus moved with him, bending easily beneath him, arching his back so he could bear down on him. Ignis was aware that he was gasping, making little sounds of pleasure that he had never known he had in him. He let Ravus push him right to the edge, and then he abruptly grasped him by the hair and jerked him back.

“What’s wrong?” Ravus panted, passing the back of his hand over his lips.

“Nothing,” Ignis told him. “But I want more. All of you.”

“Is that right?” Ravus sounded surprised, pleasantly so. He straightened up, pulling away for a moment. Ignis followed him by sound and instinct as Ravus shifted over to open the chest next to the bed. He returned a moment later, slicking oil from a glass vial over his fingers.

Ignis took the bottle from him as he bent over him once more, warming it between his hands. "I suppose you just keep this for emergencies?”

“I admit, I kept it with hope.” Ravus caught his breath as Ignis slicked the oil over his cock.

Ignis drew him down, parting his legs so he could wrap them around Ravus’ hips. He gasped as Ravus entered him in a single confident arch of his back, thrusting to the hilt. His arms were around Ravus’ neck, nails cutting into the backs of his shoulders, drawing red lines in his skin. He guided Ravus’ mouth to his, kissing him so hard that he felt the sharp blades of Ravus’ teeth cutting into his lips, drawing a trickle of blood.

“More,” Ignis gasped. “More…”

Ravus kept moving, taking him in steady even thrusts. Each one struck something hot inside him, sending little shivers of pleasure though his body. And yet, as Ravus’ breath grew faster, harsher against his ear, Ignis knew it was not going to be enough.

He tightened his hold on Ravus’ body, and with a twitch of his hips, turned Ravus onto his back and switched their positions. Ignis was sitting astride him now, kneeling across his hips with Ravus’ cock buried inside him.

“Ignis?” Ravus gasped out. His hands came to rest on Ignis’ hips, steadying them as Ignis rode him. Ignis braced his hands against Ravus’ chest, digging his nails into his chest. He felt a swelling of heat inside him as Ravus came, a burning pulse that pushed him into his own release.

Moaning on the edge of his breath, Ravus drew him down so he could bury his face in Ignis’ neck, whispering his name into the flushed skin there. Ignis shivered as he felt Ravus’ cock slip out of him, allowing him to collapse on the bed, half-draped over Ravus’ body.

He opened his mouth to speak, sure that Ravus wanted him to say something sweet and tender and true, but nothing came out. Ignis scraped his tongue against the roof of his mouth a few times, searching for the words, and finding them lacking. At last, he felt Ravus’ cool metal hand press against the back of his burning neck.

“Nothing needs be said, my beauty,” he assured him. “Just stay here with me.”

After Ravus had cleaned them up, they lay side by side, not speaking. Ignis rested his head on his lover’s shoulder, feeling it rise and fall with his steady breathing. Only when Ignis was sure that he was asleep did he flick his tongue over the cut in his bitten lip, finding the still-swollen place where Ravus’ teeth had pierced him. The blood began to flow once more, a slow trickle that he let fill his mouth and then run down the back of his throat.

It tasted of darkness, and of the deep secret womb of the earth.

Ravus did not know, did not yet even suspect, that the scourge was inside him now. Though it seemed to have few ill effects on him, Ignis was certainly that it would be forever a part of him. There might come a time, not so far off, when he would have to face that aspect of himself. As he drew near to Ravus’ side and felt his eyes grow heavy with sleep, he began to suspect that when that moment of reckoning came, only love would be able to sustain him.

He could only hope it would be enough.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end of The Sin Eater. Thank you everyone who read and commented.
> 
> I played my first FF game in 1997, and it took me until now to decide to write a fic about the series. You all made it a lovely experience. I admit, I held off on posting the last chapter for a couple of days because I didn't want this fic to end. Needless to say, I had a great time writing it and have really enjoyed the conversations with you guys in the comments and elsewhere.
> 
> A while ago, I mentioned that I was writing this fic under a different pseud than I usually use. I'm going to keep it here on the DL for now, but my main account is Greekhoop if you want to check out some of my other work.
> 
> Thanks again everyone!


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